Naturally, there were things he didn’t want to talk about. Mistakes he wished he hadn’t made. Regrets over things he’d said, or done, or didn’t do. But most of it was in the past. Different time, different place. What good would it do to drag it all up now?
But if he wanted Raney, and that’s what she needed . . . shit.
“I’m guessing you only want to hear about the bad stuff, not what I got on my fifth birthday, or which ride I liked best at Six Flags, or what my favorite color is.” He grinned over at her, hoping to lighten the mood and maybe distract her a little. “Blue. As long as it matches your eyes.”
She smiled but said nothing. Definitely not distracted.
“Okay, then. Let’s start with prison.” Maybe if he worked backward, she’d forget about the wreck. “It was noisy, grim, impersonal, and overrun with guys choking on rage with no way to expend it except on each other. Just like on TV except a lot more boring. And violent. The food was terrible, the monotony awful, the guards tolerable as long as you toed the line.”
He didn’t mention the few fights he’d had. Or his trips to the infirmary because of them, and how hard he’d worked to bulk up so he wouldn’t have to go there again. Or the endless, soul-crushing loneliness of the nights, and the constant brutal savagery that defined his days.
“I spent most of my time reading and counting the days and working out in the prison yard.” Struggling to stay sane and alive.
“What did you read?”
“Child, DeMille, Crichton. Lonesome Dove, twice.”
She gave him a teasing smile. “No romances?”
“Lonesome Dove is romantic. Sort of.”
“Only a man would think so. What about Iraq?”
He slumped back in the bucket seat, as if that might distance him from those bleak memories. After spending the last eight years trying to outdistance that dark time, now she was asking him to go through it again.
But again, if he wanted Raney, and that’s what she needed . . .
“Iraq definitely wasn’t romantic. Brutal in a whole different way from prison. Even more violent and cruel, but at least I had brothers beside me. Did I kill people? I don’t know. I aimed to. Did I see terrible things? Definitely.”
Billy’s head exploding in a red mist that coated his face, his throat, his mind.
He shook the image away. “It was war. Terrible things happened all the time. The worst was watching my buddies get hurt or die around me.”
Faces flashing through his mind. Squandered lives. Hope dying in a scream.
“Mostly I remember blood, chaos, the constant noise of explosions and gunfire. Even now, when I think about that time, all I hear is a roar in my head.”
Mangled limbs, headless torsos, agonized faces of men he loved.
He pushed through the horror, needing to say it all so maybe he wouldn’t have to speak of it ever again. “I’d go days with almost no sleep, figuring the next mortar round would have my name on it. Then there would be a lull. We’d sit around waiting for orders, talking about home and women and what we were going to do when we got back to the States, all the while pretending death wasn’t waiting outside the gate. Then it would start all over again. Mostly, it was ugly and dehumanizing. Pointless.”
He didn’t know he had clenched his fist against his thigh until she reached over and laid her hand on top of his. Odd, how that simple contact eased the tight band of tension around his chest. He took a deep breath, let it out, and twined his fingers through hers. Maybe this was helping. Maybe after talking about it, he could lock it away forever and she’d be happy again.
They sat in silence until he had to let go of her hand to make the left onto 265, a narrow, dusty ranch road. His time with Raney was almost up, but he wasn’t sure they’d accomplished anything with all this talk.
“Why did you sign on for two more years after your enlistment was over?”
Guilt. Redemption.
“Because by then I’d learned to hate,” he said, which was true, too. “I wanted payback. A reason why I’d survived and others hadn’t. I wanted to get bin Laden.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. And after a while I realized it didn’t matter. Nothing would ever change and the killing would never stop. So, I mustered out as soon as I could.”
Yet the ghosts of his buddies followed him home. He couldn’t seem to outrun them and he was so tired of trying. Even now, on the bad nights, they called out his name. But how could he explain that to someone who’d never seen war?
“Do you still hate?” she asked.
“Not much. It was a necessary tool in combat, but not now. I don’t even like thinking about Iraq anymore, much less talking about it.”
She brushed a hand along his arm. “I’m sorry. I made you go through that again. But I needed to know.”
He slowed for the turn onto 193, which would take them to the Whitcomb Four Star main gate. Time had run out. Yet he felt farther from her than ever. “Did it help? Hearing all that?” He didn’t see how. Now she’d have those pictures in her head, too, and what good could come of that?
“Definitely. Knowing what you went through, how it affected you, and how hard you’ve worked to get past that horrible time is actually a comfort to me.”
A comfort? Was she insane?
“I know now that you’re capable of violence,” she went on. “But you don’t like using it. I know you won’t go looking to hurt anyone. But when pushed, like you were at the Roadhouse, you’ll stand your ground. And that tells me you’ll protect me if need be, but you’ll never use your strength against me.”
He looked away, humbled
