The Marine Cowboy(13)

Brotherhood, his grandfather told him, didn’t end with a war or an honorable discharge. He hadn’t truly appreciated what that meant until now. But like his grandfather, A.J. knew the men in his unit were a phone call away. If he needed them, they would come. The same was true for him.

“And you were done. That’s why you came home?”

“More or less. I left to defend this way of life and now I’m home to enjoy it. Work on my ranch, fix it up and go back to training horses. If the guys need me, they know where I am.” He accepted the water bottle she offered him, washing down his own meal. Content, he sprawled on his side and propped his head on his hand, studying her.

“Can I ask you a question?” Shyness surrounded the question; she could ask him anything she wanted. He would have to show her that.

“Anything.”

“What was it like? Afghanistan…Iraq?”

“Hot. Monotonous most days, and lonely, and it could all change in a moment. You could go from routine to hellish in the space of a few seconds.” Odd to think he missed it, the routine of the unexpected firefights. But he didn’t miss the injuries or the surge of adrenaline pumping fear out of his system, knowing it only took one stray bullet—one misstep—and he would be in the coffin they saluted or the stretcher they carried off the field.

He was one of the lucky ones. His scars were all on the inside.

“Were you in both?”

“Mostly Iraq. I did a lot of supply runs, boring job, but necessary. Well, boring until it wasn’t.” He tipped the bottle of water up and took a drink.

“I’m sorry you had to go.”

Capping the bottle, he set it aside and caught her hand in his, Interlacing their fingers, he squeezed comfortingly. “I’m not. I met some great people—I learned a little Farsi. I learned what it’s like to truly have nothing and to hold a family together in spite of political and militant turmoil everywhere.”

Sadness etched into the lines around her eyes. He didn’t want her to only think of the bad, he saw some of the news stories reported from overseas. They barely skimmed the surface of everyday life.

Lifting her fingers to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Last year, I was running supplies from Baghdad to Mosul. On the route, there’s this really small town—I mean small—like five-houses-and-some-goats small. They didn’t have any businesses or even a real road besides the main stretch we drove. But every time we went through, we saw the kids out there playing. They had this really ratty soccer ball, and they kicked it, laughed, and played. They always cleared the road when we came through, staring at us with these wide, solemn eyes. Except for the kid with the ball, he waved. I got used to seeing him.” He could almost feel the searing heat, the fifty pounds of gear weighing him down and taste the sand and sunshine like grit on his tongue.

“We didn’t always drive the exact same route, better to avoid insurgents if we’re unpredictable, but we went through often enough, I recognized the kid. About seven months ago—maybe eight—we’re going through one day and I don’t see the kids out there, they aren’t playing like normal. It’s all a little hinky, too quiet—and we go on alert. Out of the ordinary is a warning. Out of nowhere, I see the kid with the ball—he races out of one of the houses and puts his ball in the middle of the road and just sits on it. We have three choices, stop, go around, or back up.”

He tensed, living in that moment again, remembering the rawness of wonder as they stared at the kid. Sheri squeezed his hand. “What happened?”

“We went with our gut, the lead car moved around us and we slowed the convoy. I got out with four others and one of the guys who spoke the language, told him to move.” A.J. laughed a little. “This kid says no. Tells us that men came through the night before and made lots of noise up the road—they were digging and shifting and they were strangers. Not U.S., not friendly to the village. They shot one of the other kids’ fathers—that’s why the kids weren’t out playing. They were mourning, but this kid with the ball—he didn’t want us going up the road.”

“Oh my God. What did you do?”

“Called it in, backed off, and let the sweepers go through—they found five—maybe eight charges—all planted on our route. Kid saved our lives.” A.J. grinned up at her, her tension deepened and he wanted her to see this was the good kind of story—the one with a decent ending. “So I got that kid a new ball—and gave him and his family enough money to leave that dirty little village if they want, too.”