Grunt Life Read Free Page B

muscular girl stopped and looked around. Her long hair hung in a waterfall of black. Her eyes were almond-shaped. Her nose held the memory of Spanish conquistadors. Her skin was the color of leaves just starting to turn. And beneath her dark eyes were full lips that looked as if they’d never smiled.
    Her eyes finally rested on the sign. She came over, gave me a who are you staring at look, then stuck out her hand to the cowboy.
    He took it.
    “Michelle Aquinas,” she said. As she shook his hand, her shirt sleeve pulled back, revealing white gauze wrapping her wrist. I glanced at the other wrist, but she saw me and shoved her hand in the back pocket of her jeans.
    “Follow me,” the man said. He folded up the sign and slid it into the back of his pants. He walked straight as a fencepost. We followed him out the door into the dry, hot air of the plains.
    He took us to an old pickup truck parked at the curb in clear violation of the law. A police officer glanced at us, but gave us no further attention. The cowboy got in and motioned us to do likewise. There was only the long bench seat. Aquinas and I appraised it.
    I saw immediate relief on her face when I said, “I’ll get in back.”
    The cowboy shook his head. “We’re going on the highway. Don’t want to get pulled over.”
    I looked at her to let her decide. She frowned, but then shrugged and got in the middle. I climbed in beside her. As I did, I brushed against her and she flinched. Jesus. We were already packed in so tight. How could I keep from making her uncomfortable? I strapped on the old-fashioned lap belt, and scooted all the way to the door, allowing her about four inches of space. I caught her looking at it. When she looked up at me, I smiled. She turned away. Yep. This was going to be a long ride.
    “Where we going?” I asked.
    “Middle of the state,” said the Cowboy.
    I wasn’t up-to-date on my U. S. geography, but I thought I remembered that Cheyenne was in the southeastern corner.
    I attempted to get him talking. “Pretty far, isn’t it?”
    It took a moment as he stared out the window to consider the philosophical implications of my question. Finally he said, “It’s a piece.” Then he put the truck in gear and headed out. Within minutes, we were cruising north on I-25. If I’d expected a briefing about who he was, where we were going, and when we’d get there, I was disappointed; we found ourselves listening to farm futures reports on the AM dial. I never knew you could say so much about corn.
    Two and a half hours later we reached Casper. By then I knew all about the price of beef on the hoof and barley futures. I’d tried to open a conversation with Michelle, but she feigned sleep both times. So I passed the trip in silence, watching antelope and prairie dogs scamper about the plains, wondering what they’d think about a few roadside explosions in their neighborhood as images of similar drives in Iraq and Afghanistan superimposed themselves on reality.
    We drove through Casper and up a dirt road, then eventually stopped in a field about three miles west of the city.
    “Get out,” the cowboy said, looking straight ahead.
    “Here?” I asked, looking around.
    He nodded. “They’ll be along shortly.”
    I glanced at Michelle. The doubt in her eyes mirrored my own, but she nodded in grudging acceptance of the order. She was right. No use arguing with the old man.
    We got out and the truck sped away.
    We stood there for a few minutes, observing the terrain.
    “Looks a lot like Afghanistan,” I finally said.
    She looked at me sharply.
    “Have you been?”
    She nodded.
    “Two tours. One in Helmand and one in Logar,” I offered. “You?”
    “Nangarhar,” she said, looking away.
    I stared at her. Nangarhar was in the middle of the shit. It was right in the teeth of the fighters pouring across the border during the fighting season. I’d seen more than my share in Helmand and Logar, but Nangarhar was the place we threatened to