At the time, Don had been disappointed because he hadn’t gotten to go somewhere he’d wanted to. Shel couldn’t even remember where that was now. As for Shel, he’d been angry-and embarrassed. Those emotions were always a bad combination for him.
Shel had wanted to do the hay as a surprise for his daddy. He’d thought maybe he could get his daddy’s attention. He’d been thirteen. It had been a lot of work for a thirteen-year-old, and having to convince Don to help him hadn’t been easy.
Even now that old anger rolled over him as he worked. He grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and mopped the sweat from his face.
“You ain’t slowing down on my account, are you?” his daddy called.
Shel looked at the man. Tyrel looked as relaxed as if he’d been taking life easy. Sweat stained his shirt, but he wasn’t breathing hard and didn’t appear tired. At times like this, Shel didn’t think the man was human.
Bending to the task again, Shel got into the rhythm and focused on moving through the bales. His shoulder ached a little from the repetitive lifting, swinging, and throwing, but he wasn’t going to quit. He let his anger feed his adrenaline, strength, and endurance.
And he still couldn’t bury his daddy in hay bales. Every one he threw was quickly stacked before he could throw the next. The effort became an exercise in futility. Frustration chafed at him until he’d thrown the last bale. Then, when he looked and found his daddy putting the bale away like it was nothing, he cursed.
That drew his daddy’s attention immediately.
Cursing wasn’t something Shel was given to. His daddy had brought him up to watch his mouth, especially around women and children. Even the loose swearing so prevalent in the military hadn’t stuck on him.
Shel’s immediate impulse was to apologize. He stopped himself just short of that. Instead, he didn’t look at his daddy and jumped from the back of the truck.
His daddy joined him a moment later. Without a word, Tyrel stripped the gloves from his hands and shoved them into the back pocket of his jeans.
“You got something on your mind, boy?” Tyrel’s voice was hard and carefully measured.
“Just forgot myself is all,” Shel said.
Tyrel eyed him. “That’s just a word. Me and you both have heard that word more’n a few times. Probably used it too.”
Shel felt ridiculous. He was taller and bigger than his daddy. He was a Marine. He was wearing a pistol on his hip.
And still he felt like a ten-year-old standing there.
“It ain’t the word I’m bothered about,” Tyrel said. “You come here to this house with a chip on your shoulder the size of a Clydesdale, and you ain’t keeping it together. I want to know what’s going on.”
Shel tried to speak and couldn’t. Helpless, he shook his head.
“Is it Victor Gant?” his daddy asked.
“I don’t know.” Even as he said it, Shel knew he’d made another mistake. The last thing Tyrel ever wanted to hear one of his sons say was I don’t know.
Tyrel’s voice hardened. “Well, that’s an outright lie, boy. If there’s anybody in this world who knows what he’s mad at when he’s mad, it’s you.”
Before he could stop himself, Shel said, “Maybe I’m a better liar than you gave me credit for, Daddy. The way I understand it, I come by it honest enough.”
Tyrel’s face tightened and his voice became a hoarse rasp. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about that soldier you killed over at Qui Nhon.” Even though he’d been in hundreds of fights and was amped up on adrenaline, Shel didn’t see his daddy move till just before the hard-knuckled fist exploded against his jaw.
41
›› Rafter M Ranch
›› Outside Fort Davis, Texas
›› 2004 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Caught almost flat-footed by the blow, Shel rocked backward. For a moment he thought his head had come clean off his shoulders. Black spots exploded in his vision.
Half-dazed, Shel threw a punch of his own.
Either his daddy hadn’t been expecting it or he’d thought Shel was going to go down. Shel’s fist caught him full in the face and drove him backward. Tyrel’s head snapped around. Something popped.
Horrified at what he’d done out of reflex, Shel hesitated. Then he caught another punch on his chin that knocked him back.
Without another word, Shel and Tyrel fought. Max started to come forward, but Shel called the Labrador back. Whining, Max subsided and lay flat on the hay-covered ground.
Pain flared Shel’s senses. Despite the blows he landed on his daddy, Tyrel refused to go down. For every punch Shel threw, his daddy came back with one.
Tyrel McHenry knew how to fight. He’d boxed before he’d gone into the Army and been sent to Vietnam. After he’d gotten back, there’d been more fights. And he never held back.
Blood filled Shel’s mouth and made breathing difficult. He stepped back and spat blood. His chest heaved.
His daddy hit him again.
Tyrel wasn’t faring much better. He breathed liked a bellows pump. His nose was no longer straight. Blood leaked down over his chin.
Shel stepped back again, then gave ground as Tyrel came at him. There was no mercy in his daddy. Something fierce rode him, drove him to the fight with everything he had. Blocking blows that came just as hard and as fast as the first one, Shel punched and fought back. He spotted an opening and clubbed his daddy on the side of the head with his fist.
Stumbling back, Tyrel lost his footing for just a moment. He sat down heavily, almost out on his feet.
Bending over, Shel rested his bruised hands on his knees. He didn’t have the stomach for fighting any more. He wanted to be done with it. He wanted to walk away.
But the question remained.
“Is that what you are, Daddy?” Shel asked hoarsely. “A murderer?”
Tyrel flailed an arm out for a paddock wall, caught the planks, and tried to pull himself up. But he didn’t have enough strength or focus to do that.
“Who did you kill over there?” Shel demanded.
“I killed a lot of people,” Tyrel growled. “That was my job. Just like yours. Just like when you killed Victor Gant’s boy. Does that make you a murderer?”
“No,” Shel said. “No, it don’t. But Victor Gant told me you killed an American soldier. He said he helped you bury him.”
Using both hands, Tyrel pulled himself into a standing position. “You gonna believe that man?”
Shel stared at his daddy. “If he’s lying, tell me that, Daddy.”
Tyrel refused to meet his gaze. His chest rose and fell.
“Tell me that Victor Gant was lying, Daddy,” Shel said. “Just tell me that. I won’t even wonder why you hit me.”
His daddy’s breath roared in the silence of the barn.
“Can you do that, Daddy?” Shel whispered. He no longer had the strength to speak in his full voice. His arms and legs felt weak. If his daddy attacked him again, he didn’t know if he could defend himself.
“You get on outta here, Shelton.” Tyrel swiveled his head to stare at Shel. “You hear me? You get on outta here.”
“Daddy-”
Crying out like a trapped animal, Tyrel reached for a pitchfork and yanked it from a hay bale. He swung it
