The Texan's Business Proposition. Peggy Moreland
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and upper lip, ran in a narrow rivulet down his spine. He paused a moment to drag his arm across his face to clear the moisture from his eyes, then moved on. When he reached the latrine, he flattened his back against the bamboo fence that surrounded it and waited, listening, his rifle held tight against his chest. Ten seconds. Twenty. Sweat dripped from his face, soaked the back of his undershirt. Thirty. Forty.
Keeping his movements slow and easy, he leaned to peer around the opening into the latrine. Ice filled his veins at the scene before him. Pops lay sprawled on the ground, still as death, while a Vietcong, dressed in the standard black pajamas the enemy wore, straddled him. The Vietcong lifted a hand high, and moonlight bounced off the blade of the knife he clutched.
Preacher opened his mouth to yell at the man to stop, to let Pops go. But no sound came out. Frozen by fear, he watched in what seemed like slow motion, as the hand started down, the tip of the blade aimed at Pops’ chest. The chatter started in his head again, one of the voices his own, the other that of the rancher who had bought him and his buddies a drink in the Texas bar, prior to them beginning the first leg of their journey for Vietnam.
“You boys scared?” the rancher asked bluntly.
“Yes, sir,” Preacher admitted. “I’ve never shot a man before. Not sure I can.”
The smile the rancher offered Preacher was filled with understanding, his wink that of a father reassuring his son. “Oh, I ’ magine you’ll find it easy enough, once those Vietcong start shooting at you.”
But the rancher was wrong, Preacher thought as he watched the blade slowly arc down, drawing nearer and nearer Pops’s chest. Pops, the man who had trained Preacher, stood by him, defended him when the other’s had called him a coward, was about to die, and Preacher couldn’t pull the trigger to save him.
He can’t die, Preacher thought desperately. Not here, not like this. He had a wife waiting for him at home, a baby on the way.
Setting his jaw, he yanked the rifle to his shoulder and looked down the barrel, fixing the Vietcong’s head between the cross-hairs. But as much as he wanted to save Pops’ life, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.
Anger built inside him, a red-hot inferno that fired his blood, roared in his ears. Taking the stock of the rifle in one hand and the barrel in the other, he opened his mouth and charged. The feral sound that spewed from deep inside him ripped through the night air like a machete. Before the Vietcong had time to react, Preacher dropped the rifle over his head and jerked it back against his throat.
The Vietcong flew backward, losing his grip on the knife. The weapon hit the ground less than a foot from Preacher’s boot and he kicked it out of reach. Before the man could scramble up, Preacher swung the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed it at the Vietcong’s face. He saw the hate in the man’s eyes…but not a trace of fear.
Behind him Pops moaned, stirred. Preacher started to glance back, wanting to make sure that Pops was all right, but as he did the Vietcong slid a hand beneath his shirt.
Fearing the man had a weapon concealed beneath the black tunic, Preacher stabbed the nose of his rifle against the Vietcong’s chest. “Don’t move!”
His lip curled in a sneer, the Vietcong ignored Preacher’s order. Preacher saw the butt of a handgun appear a split second before its nose was pointed at him.
The blast that followed was deafening, echoing around and around the fenced area. Preacher stumbled back a step, his gaze frozen on the Vietcong’s face. He saw the surprise that lit the man’s eyes, watched as the life slowly faded from them. He glanced down at the man’s chest where blood oozed from a gaping hole and gulped back the nausea that rose to his throat.
He heard a shout from outside the fenced latrine and knew the shot had raised an alarm in camp. The pounding of feet that followed assured him the soldiers were up and assuming their positions.
A hand lit on his shoulder, squeezed. He knew without looking it was Pops.
“You okay?” Pops asked.
Preacher swallowed hard, nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“Knot on my head is all, thanks to you. A second more and he would have slit my throat.”
Fast Eddie appeared in the opening to the latrine, half-dressed, his feet bare. “Y’all okay?”
Pops nodded, then gestured toward the Vietcong sprawled on the ground. “Enemy penetrated our perimeter. Order a full sweep of camp to make sure he was alone, then check on the guards on duty. I’ll get a detail together to take care of the body when I’m done here.”
Fast Eddie looked from the dead Vietcong to the rifle that Preacher held, and his eyes shot wide. “You made the kill, Preacher?”
Preacher opened his mouth, then closed it and dropped his chin.
“You have your orders, soldier,” Pops said tersely.
Fast Eddie snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.” He took one last look at Preacher, then turned and jogged away.
Preacher squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of the man lying at his feet with his life’s blood pouring from his chest remained fixed on the back of his lids. He’d killed one man to save the life of another. What gave him the right to decide who lived and who died? He wasn’t God.
As if reading Preacher’s mind, Pops tightened his grip on Preacher’s shoulder. “Don’t go beating yourself up over this. When he put on the uniform, that soldier knew he was laying his life on the line, the same as you and I did the day we put on ours.”
Preacher dragged an arm across his eyes. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“Wars are fought with only one rule in play. Kill or be killed.”
Preacher set his jaw, his anger returning. “I hate this damn war. Hate what it does to people, the suffering it’s caused, the lives it’s taken.”
Pops tightened his arm around Preacher and turned him away from the sight of the dead Vietcong. “This war’s no different from any of those fought before it. It’ll be the same for those yet to be fought.”
Preacher jerked to stop, dragging Pops to a halt, as well. “How do you deal with it?” he cried in frustration. “How can you sleep at night, knowing people are dying all around you?”
“It’s like I said before. I close my eyes and picture home. My wife, my son. It’s them I’m fighting for, their safety, their freedom.”
“And what happens when it’s over? When you go home? Will you just forget everything you’ve seen, what you’ve done? Erase it all from your mind like it never happened?”
Pops shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Preacher. Right now all I can do is focus on making it home. The rest I’ll worry about once I’m there.”
He took the rifle Preacher still held. “You’re a good man, Preacher. Of all the soldiers I’ve served with, you’re the only one I can say with confidence will leave this godforsaken war with the same principles and standards he arrived with.”
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t feel like the same man. I feel…I don’t know, scarred somehow.”
Pops nodded grimly. “I read a quote somewhere. Can’t remember who said it, but it went something like this. ‘In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.’ At the time I remember thinking the guy who said it must have been crazy. Now I think I understand what he meant.”
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Me, too.”
Squinting his eyes against the darkness, Pops looked off into the distance a long moment. “Preacher, I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but the soldiers who make it home are going to be burdened with a greater responsibility than the ones they’ve shouldered here.”
Preacher looked at him in confusion. “How’s that?”
His smile