A Piece of Texas Trilogy Page 5

  Out in the field, we work as a unit and depend on each other to stay alive. But these guys are so out of it most of the time, I can’t trust them to cover my back. I tried talking to them, told them the booze and drugs were messing with their heads and that they were going to get us all killed if they didn’t cut that crap out. They just laughed and called me an old man and worse. Hell, I don’t care what they call me. I just don’t want their stupidity getting them—or any of the rest of us—killed.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that and I sure as heck don’t want to make you worry. Sometimes I just need to unload—

  Stephanie pursed her lips at the word unload, wishing her father had chosen a term other than the one Wade had used to describe her need to talk. Giving the pages a firm snap, she began to read again.

  but there’s nobody that I can talk to about this stuff. If I go to the lieutenant, I’ll feel like a rat for squealing and probably get my buddies in trouble.

  Enough of this. Telling you about it isn’t going to change things any. How are you feeling? Has the morning sickness passed yet? How much weight have you gained? And don’t worry about those extra pounds. It just gives me more to love! Have you thought of any names yet? If it’s a boy, we could name him William, after my father, and call him Will for short. And if it’s a girl, I’ve always liked the name Stephanie. I knew a girl once—not a girlfriend, just a friend—named Stephanie, and she was really cool. Stephanie Blair. How does that sound?

  Better go. The chopper is due soon to pick up the mail, and I want this letter to be on it when it takes off.

  Love forever,

  Larry

  Stephanie carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He had named her. Her father, not her mother, had chosen her name. She quickly sniffed back the emotion that realization drew.

  See, she told herself proudly as she slid the letter beneath the last on the stack without shedding a tear. She could do this. She’d read a letter all the way through without falling apart, and one that had the potential to set her off on a crying jag. Confident that she had a handle on her emotions, she pulled the next letter from the stack.

  Dearest Janine,

  We lost one of the guys in our unit yesterday. North Vietcong were spotted in our area, and our unit was sent out to verify the report and to find out how many there were and how much firepower they packed. We’d been out two days without seeing any sign of the enemy and were ready to head back, when all hell broke loose.

  We were near an old bomb crater and we made a run for it so we could form a defense and radio for a chopper. We managed to hold them off until aircraft could get there to give us cover from above. Just as we spotted the chopper coming in, somebody realized that Deek, one of the new guys in our unit, was missing.

  We only had seconds to get into that chopper and get the hell out of there. There were still two of us on the ground—me and T.J.—when all of a sudden there was this sound like an Indian war whoop, followed by machine-gun fire. I glanced to my left and there was Deek, standing on the edge of that crater like he thought he was John Wayne, blasting away with his machine gun. I yelled for him to get down, but it was too late. The Vietcong had already spotted him.

  He took the first hit in the neck, and that was probably what killed him. He took about twenty more before his body slid behind the rim of the crater and out of their sights. T.J. and I dragged him to the chopper and brought him back to base. I imagine his parents have gotten word by now. I just hope they never know that he was stoned out of his mind when he died.

  Sometimes there’s no satisfaction in saying “I told you so.” That’s the case with Deek. If he’d listened to me and stayed clear of drugs, he might be alive today. Of course, he might’ve caught one anyway. That’s the hell of it. You never know when your number is gonna come up.

  In some ways, I owe Deek my thanks. Watching him die changed my life. I was awake most of the night, thinking back over mistakes I’ve made in the past, and I’ve come up with a plan. In the future, I’m not going to be so slow about telling people what I think or how I feel about them. I’m going to be more open to new ideas and less judgmental of those I don’t agree with. And I’m going to be quicker to forgive. You never know when you’re going to run out of time to make things right.

  I love you, Janine.

  Larry

  Stephanie lowered the letter and stared blindly at the wall, numbed by the vivid scene her father had described. She couldn’t imagine what horrors he must have witnessed in Vietnam. Deek’s death was probably only one of many he had witnessed during the eighteen months he’d spent overseas.

  How did a person deal with that? she asked herself. What kind of emotional scars did it leave him with? And how did he ever sleep at night without being haunted by the memories?

  She laid a hand over the page, thinking of the effect her father had claimed that Deek’s death had had on his life. If he’d lived, what kind of man would he have been? she wondered. Certainly a wiser one, judging from the things he’d seen and the lessons he’d learned. Sadly he’d never had the chance to put into action his plan to improve his life even more.

  Her eyes sharpened. But she could, she realized. She could take the things he’d planned to do and incorporate them into her own life. It would be a way of honoring her father, a way of giving his life purpose. It would be a means of making him a part of her life.

  Wade stood in the doorway quietly watching Stephanie. She wasn’t sobbing her heart out, which he considered a good sign. But she wasn’t dancing a jig either. Her forehead was pleated, as if she were absorbed in some deep thought. And there were creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth, as if whatever she was thinking about was either sad or depressing.

  “Did you finish reading the letters?”

  She jumped, then placed a hand over her heart and released a long breath. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Dragging off his hat, he stepped into the room. “Sorry. Next time I’ll give a holler.” He dropped down on the arm of the recliner. “So? How’d it go?”

  Averting her gaze, she lifted a shoulder and drew the ribbon back around the stack of letters. “Okay, I guess. I only read two.”

  “Two?” he repeated and glanced at his watch. “They must’ve been long ones—I was gone almost an hour.”

  “Not long. Heavy.”

  “Oh,” he said in understanding but offered nothing more. If she wanted to talk, he’d listen, but he wasn’t going to force her to say anything she wasn’t ready or willing to share.

  Her expression growing pensive, she framed the stack of letters between her hands. “He was only twenty-one when he died,” she said as if thinking aloud. “Yet he’d probably seen and experienced more than men twice his age.”

  “Yeah, I imagine he had.”

  She glanced up and met his gaze. “In the last letter I read, he wrote about a guy in his unit who was killed.” Wincing, she shook her head. “It was awful just reading about it. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be there and witness it firsthand.”

  “War’s no picnic. Ask any veteran.”

  Lowering her gaze, she plucked guiltily at the ribbon that bound the letters. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but most of my knowledge of war is purely historical. Dates, battles, the political ramifications. The kind of thing you learn in a classroom. And since I’ve never been a fan of war movies or novels, I’ve never had a visual to associate with it before.” She shuddered. “And to be honest, I think I preferred it that way.” She glanced up, her expression sheepish. “I guess that makes me sound like an ostrich, huh? Wanting to keep my head buried in the ground?”

  Wade thought of his daughter and the current problems he was having with her and shook his head. “No. Innocence is a hard thing to hold on to in today’s world. What with all the graphic and gruesome TV shows and movies being shown, I consider it a miracle that you’ve managed to hold on to even a smidgen of your innocence.” />
  “Innocent? Me?” She choked back a laugh and shook her head. “I think I lost my innocence about the age of six, when Tammy Jones told me there was no Santa Claus.”

  He clapped a hand over his heart. “Please,” he begged, “tell me it isn’t so.”

  Hiding a smile, she set the bundle aside and drew her legs beneath her. “I didn’t say there wasn’t a Santa Claus. I was only repeating what Tammy told me.”

  He dragged an arm across his forehead in an exaggerated show of relief. “Whew. You scared me there for a minute. I’m counting on Santa bringing me the new Kubota tractor I’ve been lusting after.”

  “A tractor?” she repeated, then rolled her eyes. “Men and their toys.”

  “A tractor’s not a toy,” he informed her. “It’s a machine.”

  She flapped a dismissing hand. “Whatever.”

  “Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants. What is Santa gonna bring you?”

  She blinked as if startled by the question, then tears filled her eyes.

  Wade swallowed a groan, realizing that with Bud gone, this would be her first Christmas alone—an actuality he’d just brutally reminded her of. Dropping to a knee, he covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry, Steph. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Keeping her face down, she shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I just…hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  Hearing the sadness in her voice and knowing he’d put it there made him feel about as low as a snake. In hopes of making it up to her, he caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Tell you what,” he said. “As punishment for sticking my foot in my mouth, I’ll give you an hour of slave labor. Haul boxes, carry out the garbage. You name it, I’m your man.”

  He sensed her resistance, but then she surprised him by giving her head a decided nod.

  “All right,” she said. “But remember, this was your idea, not mine.”

  Stephanie didn’t know what had possessed her to accept Wade’s backhanded offer of help…or maybe she did.

  I’m going to be quicker to forgive. You never know when you’re going to run out of time to make things right….

  It was one of the ways her father had planned to change his life…and one of the changes Stephanie would have to make in her own if she was going to honor her father’s memory by adopting his plan.

  But could she forgive Wade? Truly forgive him?

  She gave her head a shake as she placed the wrapped platter inside the box, unsure if that was possible.

  “What pile does this go in?”

  Pushing the hair back from her face, she looked up to see what Wade was holding. “Oh, wow,” she murmured and reached to take the round of white plaster from him. “I haven’t seen that in ages.”

  He hunkered down beside her. “What is it?”

  “Don’t you recognize fine art when you see it?” she asked, then smiled as she smoothed her hand across the shallow indentations in the plaster. “I made this in Bible school. Our teacher poured plaster in a pie pan, then had us press our hands into it to leave a print.”

  He placed his hand over the one impressed in the plaster. “Look how little that is,” he said in amazement. “Mine is three or four times the size of yours.”

  She gave him a droll look. “I was five years old when I made that. I’ve grown some since then.”

  “Mine are still bigger.” He held up his hand. “Put yours against mine,” he challenged. “Let’s see whose is bigger.”

  She hesitated slightly, reluctant to make the physical connection, then took a bracing breath and placed her palm against his. The warmth struck her first, followed by the strength she sensed beneath the flesh. She closed her eyes as awareness sizzled to life beneath her skin, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

  “A good three inches longer,” he boasted, pressing his fingers against hers. “Maybe more. And the breadth of my palm is at least two inches wider.” He shifted his gaze to hers, then frowned and peered closer. “Steph? You okay? Your face is all red.”

  Of course it is, she wanted to tell him. Her body felt as if it were on fire and her mind was spinning, churning up memory after memory of what his hands could do to drive a woman out of her mind.

  Dragging in a breath, she forced a smile. “Just a little dizzy. That’s all.” Flapping a dismissive hand, she laughed weakly. “I guess I’ve been pushing myself too hard to get all this done.” She attempted to withdraw her hand, but he slid his fingers between hers, locking them together. Startled, she glanced up and met his gaze. In his eyes she saw the same awareness, the same need that burned behind her own. Unable to look away, she stared, slowly realizing that he was going to kiss her.

  “Steph…”

  At the last second she turned her face away and shook her head. “No. Don’t. Please. I—”

  “You what?”

  Gulping back tears, she met his gaze. “I don’t want you to kiss me. What happened before…I can’t forget that.”

  She saw the anger that flashed in his eyes.

  “Can’t or won’t?” he challenged.

  Shaking her head, she dropped her gaze. “It doesn’t matter. The result is the same.”

  He clamped his fingers down hard over her hand. “It may not matter to you, but it does to me. For God’s sake, Steph! All that’s in the past. Why can’t you let it go?”

  She snapped her gaze to his, furious that he would think it was that easy. “Because it hurts,” she cried, fisting her free hand against her chest. “All these years later, and it still hurts.”

  He stared, the muscles in his face going slack. “You still care,” he murmured, as if awed by the realization.

  She shook her head wildly and tried to pull her hand free. “I don’t. I can’t.”

  He clamped his fingers tighter over hers, refusing to let her go. “You may not want to, but you can’t deny what I see, what you feel.”

  A tear slipped past her lid and slid down her cheek.

  “Aw, Steph,” he said miserably. “I never meant to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I asked then for your forgiveness and you refused.” He dropped his gaze and shook his head. “Maybe that was asking too much of you. Could be it still is.” He lifted his head to meet her gaze again, and she nearly wept at the regret that filled his eyes. “I know I destroyed whatever chance we ever had of being together, but couldn’t we at least be friends?” He gave her hand a pleading squeeze. “Please, Steph? Is that too much to ask?”

  She wanted desperately to tell him yes, it was too much to ask, to scream accusations and shoot arrows of blame until his heart was filled with as many holes as hers had been.

  But she found she couldn’t. And it was more than her desire to carry out her father’s pledge of granting forgiveness that kept her from exacting her revenge. It was the pleading in his eyes and the sincerity in his voice that reached out and touched a place in her heart she’d thought could never be breached again.

  But she wouldn’t let him hurt her again. She couldn’t. She would try her best to be his friend—but nothing more.

  Drawing a steadying breath, she squared her shoulders. “I suppose we can try.”

  He stared a long moment, as if not trusting his ears, then dropped his chin to his chest and blew out a long breath. “Well, at least that’s a start.” Releasing her hand, he picked up the plaster disk of her handprint. “So what’s it going to be? Trash, keep or donate?”

  Grateful that he seemed willing to put the emotional scene behind them, she blinked to clear the tears from her eyes, then frowned as she studied the piece he held. Sagging her shoulders, she pointed to the pile marked Trash. “I’ll probably hate myself later, but pitch it.”

  “If you want it, keep it.”

  Shaking her head, she picked up a china cup to wrap. “I’m already going to have to rent a storage facility as it is.”

  “But if it’s special…” he argued.

  “That’s just it. Everything’s special!” She placed the wrapped piece
in the box, then waved a hand at the stuff piled around the room. “There isn’t anything here that doesn’t have a memory attached to it.” She rocked to her knees and plucked a crystal bowl from the dining room table. “Take this, for instance. It belonged to my mother’s mother. Mom told me that her mother always used it to serve her special fruit salad whenever they had company. Mom used it for the same thing. She even used the same fruit salad recipe her mother had always used.” She opened a hand in a gesture of helplessness. “How do you throw away a piece of history like that?”

  Wade picked up a piece of newspaper from the floor and handed it to her. “You don’t. You either add on a room to your house or rent another storage building.”

  Stephanie frowned as he picked up another piece of paper and began to wrap it around the plaster handprint. “What are you doing? I told you to pitch that.”

  “A piece of art like this?” Shaking his head, he leaned to place it in the box with the china. “No way. That thing is priceless.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she watched him tuck the wrapped handprint into the box. It was such a simple thing, silly really, a kindness he was probably not even aware of. Yet his refusal to throw away a souvenir from her childhood put another crack in the armor she’d placed around her heart.

  Fearing he’d do something else to widen the crack even more, she quickly wrapped paper around her grandmother’s bowl. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “One thirty-five.”

  She tucked the bowl into the box and stood, dusting off her hands. “Which means you’ve more than fulfilled your hour of slave labor.”

  “I can stay a little longer, if you want.”

  “Uh-uh.” She turned him around and gave him a push toward the door. “Though I really appreciate all you did and hate losing the extra set of hands, I know darn good and well you’ve got work of your own to do.”