by Aaron Gwyn
She passed the man his cup and coaster, and he walked toward the soda machine set up in a nook against the far wall. She said she could help whomever was next. She still hadn’t seen him. The two women moved up together and began to give their orders. Russell was maybe six feet from her now. His heart began to race and he felt his throat tighten. A sweat broke out on the back of his neck. And of all things he thought of Captain Wynne, their conversation in the predawn before they’d assaulted the tower, sitting there sipping coffee, only time they’d ever been alone. No, that wasn’t right: they’d been alone at the corral that first time they’d met. So they’d been alone exactly twice, and that second time the captain had questioned him about his father and mother, about his decision to join the Rangers, and after listening to Russell, he’d sat there a moment. And it wasn’t what the captain said that stayed with him. It was the look on his face, his entire demeanor, as if what had happened to Russell’s parents clarified a number of things. And Russell had sensed something strange. He could tell that the captain pitied him. He could tell Wynne thought he’d been broken, as roughly and thoroughly as any horse. Russell hadn’t liked it, and now he liked it even less.
Because, what if he had been broken? What if he still was? The phrase Wynne had used was children of adversity, but what he was really saying was that Russell had ended up in his particular set of circumstances because he’d been abandoned. Or damaged. Or wrecked. And maybe what bothered him most was that he suspected the captain was right. He’d thought of Sara in that way. It was one of the things that drew him. You see someone like that—a woman like that—and something inside you reaches out. At least it did in him. And standing there, just feet away from her, it occurred to Russell she might feel exactly the same.
One of the women reached into her purse and handed over her credit card. Sara swiped it and handed it back. Russell tried to calm his thoughts, and he had a strong urge to turn around and bolt. She still hadn’t seen him. She wouldn’t even know. He had a life waiting at Fort Campbell if he wanted it. Something he knew about. Something he could do. A place and a purpose and a people he understood. The girl in front of him was unknown territory. She was what he’d never actually tried. And she could be what actually destroyed him, worse than any bullet or bomb. He thought about all of that. He could still turn away and walk. A few thousand miles on his truck, several nights of hotel bills, a dozen or so tanks of gas. Call it a detour, an early summer break. The women got their cups and coasters. Sara was staring down at her register. He still had a few final seconds.
The women moved off toward the soda fountain, and Russell stepped forward, put his hands on the counter to steady himself, drew a deep breath inside his lungs, and with it, her perfume. His mind went instantly quiet and the fear seemed to subside. He exhaled the turmoil and panic.
Sara’s eyes were on the register. She pressed a button and it made a beeping sound, then it made another. Her face relaxed, and she put a hand to her mouth and cleared her throat.
“Can I help you?” she asked him, and then she raised her eyes.
THEY CAME DOWN the trail in the early morning light, three horses, three riders, the horses so haggard you could see every rib. Their saddlebags were gone, but still they stumbled beneath their riders’ weight, the riders themselves stripped of packs and pouches, their uniforms dusted the same color as the mountains, their lean faces powdered with talc and their beards chalked white. A gray company. A cavalry of ghosts. The blue eyes of the man riding at the head of the column were all that marked them among the living. He had a rifle slung across his back and a pistol holstered on his thigh. The men behind him were likewise armed, blood dried in black splotches on their vests. The sky in the east was a pale shade of rose, and when the sun crested the horizon, it stained the riders and their horses with a deep crimson light. The stallion at the head of the column shook its massive head and began to sidle, but the blue-eyed rider spoke to him and reined him to a halt. The horses behind him stopped as well and then stood there, steaming. The stallion snorted and shook his head, muscles rippling beneath his perfect golden coat. He lifted his front leg and pawed the earth. His breath fogged in the morning cold. The rider reached to stroke his neck and the stallion went motionless. The man sat the horse, staring. Then he raised his hand and gestured toward the rising sun, chucked up the horse, and they continued eastward into the strange country below.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to express my deepest gratitude to my agent, Nat Sobel, and my editor, Eamon Dolan. Both saw something in my manuscript better than what was on the page. Then they helped me see it. Thanks also to the A-team at Sobel Weber Associates: Judith Weber, Julie Stevenson, and Adia Wright. More thanks to the tier-one operators at Eamon Dolan Books/HMH, Ben Hyman in particular. And to Kate Davis: commando of copyeditors.
My three best friends were instrumental in keeping me going on this project: Clint Stewart, Mark Walling, Adam Schnier. I wouldn’t have done it without you.
(Or you, Skeeter—you continue to draw my blood.)
Special thanks to Sergeant Chip Herrin of the 509th Airborne; to Sheldon Kelly, cowboy extraordinaire: you saw the elephant and went back for another gander. Much respect and appreciation to the Rangers and Special Forces operators who answered question after question: wish I was able to mention you by name.
Lastly, I want to thank Robbie Rosas, Nick Long, and Jerry Redman: baddest gunfighters walking. Nous defions, my brothers. Nous defions.
About the Author
AARON GWYN was raised on a cattle ranch in rural Oklahoma. He is the author of a story collection, Dog on the Cross (finalist for the New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award), and a novel, The World Beneath. His short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in Esquire, McSweeney’s, Glimmer Train, the Missouri Review, the Gettysburg Review, and New Stories from the South. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he is an associate professor of English at the University of North Carolina, and contributes book reviews, articles, and narrative nonfiction to Esquire magazine and Esquire.com.