How many times had she imagined growing up a normal kid? Where home was a two-story Colonial house in the suburbs with a manicured lawn, a tire swing hung from an old oak tree in the backyard next to a playhouse, or better yet, a tree house. She’d dreamt of birthday parties with layer cake and homemade ice cream and beautifully wrapped presents. Surrounded by friends. She’d wished for a bike for herself and a baby doll for Bailey to appear under the tree on Christmas morning. She’d imagined hot summers selling lemonade on the sidewalk and swimming at the lake. Winters sledding and ice-skating and coming home to a steaming cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.

Around age thirteen she’d given up on hopes for a normal life, pushing girlish dreams aside. She just wanted to survive until she turned eighteen and could take off like Liberty had.

Except that hadn’t happened. With the way things always went in Harper’s life, it probably never would. Some people were born lucky, or at least with a sprinkling of cosmic goodness, and things went their way once in a while. Not her. Not ever. She’d gotten so used to picking herself up, dusting herself off, she wouldn’t know what to do if the universe ever smiled on her.

After sprinkling Mozzarella cheese on the top layer of sauce, Harper popped the lasagna in the oven. She washed the last of the veggies, which were looking a bit wilted, and chopped a salad, adding a sweet-and-sour dressing. She set the bread machine on the counter, dumping flour, oil, yeast, and a pinch of sugar and salt into the inner pan. Nothing in the world smelled as delicious as fresh-baked bread filling the house with a homey scent. Plus, it was a lot cheaper to bake her own.

She poured a glass of water and scowled at the postage stamp- size backyard covered in a layer of dirty snow. The hedge separating their house from the one behind it offered minimal privacy. In the summertime Harper hesitated to hang their clothes on the line, suspecting that snoopy Mrs. Johnston was peering through her blinds to see if Harper or Bailey wore stripper clothes or indecent lingerie.

And speaking of lingerie . . . could she just say a prayer to the underwear gods for being down to her last clean pair of underwear and bra yesterday? Forcing her to put on the nicest ones she owned? Thank God she hadn’t worn tattered granny panties and the underwire bra that actually had a wire poking out of it.

But maybe Bran thought she wore matching lingerie all the time. That’d fit the beauty queen persona he attributed to her. So, how long had he checked her out before he’d covered her?

Her cell phone buzzed in her robe pocket. “Hello?”

“Little sister. How is the hellhole known as Muddy Gap, Wyoming?”

“Cold and snowy. How is the hellhole known as Afghanistan?”

“Cold. And shitty. So, speaking of shitty . . . Bailey tells me you’ve got a shitty new job—literally shoveling shit as a hired hand on some dude’s ranch. What’s up with that?”

Harper filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “I lost one of my jobs and had to find another ASAP, oh, you know, so we can eat and pay rent and trivial stuff like that.”

“But a ranch hand? Harper? You? Really?”

“With the mess Mom left us in this time no one in town wants to hire me. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“So why is Bailey in a piss-poor mood and hiding in her room?”

“Who knows?” She heard Liberty exhaling. Smoking like a chimney—another great habit their mother had passed on to her oldest daughter.

“Tell me about this rancher dude. Is he old? Fat? Mean? Ugly?”

“No. No. No. And definitely no.”

“Spill. I’ve been without sex for . . . God, I don’t even remember what it’s like to have someone else’s fingers touching me or what an orgasm is like without a vibrator.”

Liberty had always been blunt to the point of rudeness. Serving in the army, surrounded by mostly men, only increased her bluntness and crudeness.

“You doing the nasty with him?” Liberty asked.

Harper dunked a mint tea bag in the cup of hot water. “No, I’m not sleeping with him. I’m working for him. And ew, I didn’t need to know why you’re always asking us to send you extra batteries in the care packages.”

Liberty laughed. And coughed. And went right on smoking. “So this rancher dude is young, built, nice, and good-looking?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. Before you ask, yes, he’s straight.”

“Damn. I was having a Brokeback moment.”

“You are hard up.”

“You have no idea.”

“How’s that possible, Lib? You’re surrounded by men.”

“The guys in my unit are off-limits. The guys in the other units stationed here are all married, or they look twelve years old and act like it. So I ain’t getting any until I finish this deployment.”

Another thing Harper added to her list of worries: the danger to Liberty in her service to Uncle Sam. “When is this deployment over?”

“Who the f**k knows? Rumor is they’re extending us for another three months, until the replacement units are up to speed. That’s all I can say or this call will mysteriously end.”

“I understand. It’s just . . . I miss you.” God. She sounded whiny. “It’s probably stupid, but I was hoping you could be here for Bailey’s graduation.”

“I would if I could, Harper. You know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” In the background she heard a man shout, “Bert. Get your ass over here.”