A/N: lyrics are from "Love is Just a Four-Letter Word," by Bob Dylan
Jane lived in a secluded, one-story, modest house tucked in the foothills near Waterton, at the end of a winding, gravel road. It had a big porch that gave a partial view of the lakes. Finn helped put away the leftovers from the picnic in her large, airy kitchen, then followed her into the living room, which was dominated by a stone fireplace and a massive bearskin rug. He commented on it, wondering inwardly how Rachel would have reacted.
"It was a gift from the Blood Tribe Police Service, for my help last year in finding some kidnapped children from the reserve. One of the children was the niece of an officer. His great-great-grandfather killed the bear in nineteen-eighteen. It was quite an honor for me."
"I can imagine," Finn said, impressed. She grabbed a guitar and they went out on the porch and sat on the stairs. The distant lake glittered.
He showed her the chords for the song and they ran through the melody a few times. It was in a minor key, and had a bluesy feel to it. Jane was better than he was.
"Do you have any lyrics for it yet?"
"No. Only a feeling…and some images. I was thinking about how a bird must feel when it takes its first flight. Or a prisoner being released after a long sentence." He paused. "Or a lover finally letting go."
She studied him for a moment, and then put down the guitar, pulling her knees up to her chest, staring at the lake.
"Have you let go?" she asked, unwilling to let him see her face clearly.
He stared out at the lake, too.
"Yes," he replied, 'But I think it left some almighty scars."
"I've got some scars of my own," she said, finally looking at him with a smile, and picked up her guitar again.
"Do you like Dylan?"
Finn had to admit he didn't know much of his music. Jane gave him a mock look of concern.
"You poor child," she said, and began a song with a lilting, rambling melody. Her voice was strong and clear, lacking Rachel's power and range, but impressive nonetheless:
Seems like only yesterday
I left my mind behind
Down in the Gypsy Café
With a friend of a friend of mine
She sat with a baby heavy on her knee
Yet spoke of life most free from slavery
With eyes that showed no trace of misery
A phrase in connection first with she occurred
That love is just a four letter word
Outside a rattling storefront window
Cats meowed to the break of day
Me, I kept my mouth shut,
To you I had no words to say
My experience was limited and underfed
You were talking while I hid
To the one who was the father of your kid
You probably didn't think I did, but I heard
You say that love is just a four letter word
I said goodbye unnoticed
Pushed towards things in my own games
Drifting in and out of lifetimes
Unmentionable by name
Searching for my double, looking for
Complete evaporation to the core
Though I tried and failed at finding any door
I must have thought that there was nothing more
Absurd than that love is just a four letter word
Though I never knew just what you meant
When you were speaking to your man
I can only think in terms of me
And now I understand
After waking enough times to think I see
The Holy Kiss that's supposed to last eternity
Blow up in smoke, its destiny
Falls on strangers, travels free
Yes, I know now, traps are only set by me
And I do not really need to be
Assured that love is just a four letter word
When she finished, Finn didn't say anything for a few moments. He was too caught up in the lyrics, the density of words and the odd, yet effective imagery. It was a revelation. Jane threw him a bemused expression.
"Wow. Just wow," he said finally.
"The song,or the performer?" she teased, then got up. " Looks like you may have caught the Dylan bug. Listen, let's go inside. You can take a shower and we'll listen to some prime Dylan, maybe Blonde on Blonde. Then I'll start preparing dinner. We'll eat early and listen some more if you like. "
"That would be fantastic," he said. "The shower and everything else. I must reek."
Jane wrinkled her nose. "Yeah. Hopefully you clean up nice." She showed him the spacious, neat bathroom, mentioned that the water heater was small, so military showers were recommended, then handed him some towels, while he laid out the change of clothes and shaving kit he had brought. She looked embarrassed when he caught her looking him up and down before she left.
The bathroom had a very large shower, much to his relief. He used just enough water to get wet, then soaped and shampooed up with the water turned off, then rinsed. He was more leisurely with his shave. He smiled into the mirror. He liked this girl.
Jane had a stack of LP's ready when he returned to the living room. She beckoned him to the couch. He noticed the high-end turntable, electronics and speakers for the first time. "Booty from the divorce," she explained breezily, "Besides, almost all of the LP's are mine." One wall had shelves of them from floor to ceiling.
She handed Finn the cover for Blonde on Blonde. "It's kind of the sacred album for Dylan fans," she said, and put side one on the turntable. "Have a beer while I put your clothes in the washer."
He sat back and sipped some more Wild Rose, and immediately recognized the first song, with its demand that everybody must get stoned.
"Yeah, everybody knows that one," Jane said when she returned, joining him on the couch. "Red plaid boxers? Seriously?"
He shrugged, smiling. "Could have been Spongebob Squarepants."
She shuddered. They chatted through a couple of songs, but Jane stopped talking when she saw Finn suddenly become engrossed in the music. It was "Visions of Johanna", one of Dylan's best songs ever, in her opinion, and she sat back and enjoyed watching him enjoy it. He fascinated her. Her first impression of him was that of a giant, good-looking mountain man. She freely admitted to herself and to her girl friends later, that his looks just made her melt. But he also had a perceptive, artistic facet, one that hadn't been allowed to fully blossom, for whatever reason. She didn't know how much the war had damaged him; not irreparably, she hoped.
They listened through to the end of the album. Finn said he only recognized one other song, "Just Like a Woman". Jane started to get up. "I'll make dinner. Hope you like pork chops. My dad raised and dressed the pork himself," she said, but was prevented from rising fully by Finn's hand on her arm. His eyes willed her to stay, and she let him pull her into a kiss, soft and sweet, which she returned gladly. She licked her lips afterwards, and almost went in for another herself, but decided not to be greedy.
"That was nice," she murmured. He nodded. "But you didn't answer my question about the pork chops."
"They sound fantastic. I can't remember the last time I had them."
Jane liked a man with an appetite. Finn had wolfed down the chop, baked potato and her garden-grown asparagus.
"Don't eat the bone,' she joked, "I save those for my neighbor's dog."
Finn wiped his mouth with his napkin and grinned. "My eating was kind of legendary in high school. This was wonderful. Thanks."
He helped her clear the plates, and poured them coffee while she sliced up an apple pie. "Sorry, store-bought. I can't bake for crap."
They took their coffee into the living room, only this time Jane sat close to Finn, resting her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way for some time, both seeming to just need the closeness of another human being. Finn remembered Afghanistan, where it sometimes got so cold he and his buddies would huddle together for warmth. He thought about how he loved them. One of the first things he learned over there was that they weren't fighting for their country or the folks back home. Each man fought for the man next to him, having his back, comforting him if he was wounded, and, if necessary, soothing him as he died. He apporeciated how Jane understood this, and let him just enjoy her physical presence. He also appreciated her femininity, despite the fact she must also be tough as nails to do what she did for a living. Her right breast, infinitely soft, rested against his chest.
And he was lonely. Maybe she was, too. She smelled fresh, alive. He felt her tense, ever so slightly before whispering over the silence:
"Stay with me tonight." She caressed his face and kissed him, hard, before he could even answer. He kissed her back strongly in response.
Her bedroom was small and spare, but the bed itself was big and inviting. As they took off their clothes, Finn saw Jane turn away from him. At first he thought she was being modest, but as she removed her jeans and black panties, and after he appreciated her perfectly-shaped buttocks, he saw it. An angry red dent above her right hip, small, almost perfectly round. When she was completely naked, she stood, still facing away from him.
"Other than medical personnel, my husband is the only man who has seen this," she choked out. "You can turn until I get in bed if you like."
"Turn around, Jane," Finn ordered, gently. She hesitated for just a moment, then slowly complied, shutting her eyes. He could see her struggling to keep her arms at her sides.
She was beautiful, he thought: generous, firm breasts; taut, flat belly; somewhat narrow hips; long, toned legs. She was completely hairless. And there, above her right hip, was the exit wound: a large- perhaps half the size of his fist- irregular, red depression. She was trembling.
Finn came around and took her in his arms, kissing her still-closed eyes, leading her to the bed. The first thing he did was wriggle down and kiss the wound, as she involuntarily shuddered.
"I can't wear a bikini anymore," she whispered, as he came up to kiss her, "And I used to rock a bikini."
"You still can, in my book," he said, nuzzling her neck, "You're beautiful."
She had been wearing light body armor during the riot in the prison, but it rode up as she bent to drag a dying MP away from the fighting. One of the Taliban prisoners shot her in the back with a rifle provided by a traitorous Afghan police officer.
"I took the bastard out with my sidearm before collapsing," she said with grim satisfaction. "That wiped the fucking grin off his face."
She stopped with a humorless chuckle. "Great pillow-talk, eh? I guess that ruined the mood…"
Finn instinctively knew what she needed right then; the two of them clung to each other, entwined, until sleep drove the memories away.
Nightmares, if there were any, remained mercifully unremembered.