Free Cattle Valley 26 - Shadow Soldier by Carol Lynne

Deacon’s chest and perched precariously on his shoulder.
Priest chuckled and tossed his empty bottle into the trashcan. “You look like a gay pirate.”
Deacon growled at the insult, giving his best pirate imitation in the process. He held onto Groucho and got to his feet. “You think Luke will allow this one back inside until we leave?”
Priest turned off the main overhead lights, leaving on one bare bulb beside the door. “It’s not bringing him back in that’s the problem. You may have to do some fast talking to get outta here with that one.”
Deacon walked out of the barn carrying Groucho. “I’m not worried. He owes me.”
* * * *
    With the bodies of his fallen comrades grotesquely seated in front of him, Aaron struggled to keep pressure on the young boy’s shoulder wound. He closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the cruel jeers hurled his way from the men he’d considered friends. Whoever said the dead couldn’t speak had never spent two full days watching them slowly decompose while having guns trained on them by their murderers.
    “Look at what you’ve done to us. Is the boy worth it?” Private First Class Miller asked, half his face missing.
“No!” Aaron screamed. One of his captors grabbed him, and Aaron did his best to fight the man off with one hand while the other continued to try and save the boy’s life.
“Aaron!”
Aaron heard Deacon’s voice and tried to warn him. “Get out, they’ll kill you!”
“Aaron, it’s okay, it’s just a dream.”
Aaron gasped and opened his eyes. He continued to struggle against Deacon’s hold for several seconds before realising he was at home in his bed. Pulling his arm out of Deacon’s grip, he wiped the sweat and tears from his face. “I need something to drink,” he said, throwing back the covers.
“I’ll get it,” Deacon offered.
“No!” he barked. He slid off the mattress and stood. “Sorry,” he mumbled, leaving the room. Naked, Aaron opened the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of apple juice. He opened the top and drank the sweet beverage while standing with the door open, letting the refrigerator air cool his overheated body.
The dream wasn’t new, just a variation of the same nightmare he had every time he fell asleep. Aaron finished the juice and closed the fridge, setting the bottle on the counter. The overwhelming desire to document the nightmare prompted him towards the small kitchen table. Pulling a blank sheet of paper out of the binder, he stared at the crayon wheel. As he stared at the hues of red, Aaron tried to remember the drying blood on the side of Miller’s face. He withdrew two crayons—mahogany and jazzberry jam.
The thud of Deacon’s rubber-tipped cane against the laminate floor caught Aaron’s attention. “You can go on back to bed. It’ll take me a while before I’m ready to sleep again.”
Deacon pulled out a chair and sat next to Aaron. He sat quietly for about ten minutes while Aaron put his dream on paper. “Tell me about it.”
Aaron glanced at Deacon before going back to his drawing. “You told me you already knew what happened.”
“I know what the report says, but the official version doesn’t mean anything to me. I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”
Although Aaron had confessed certain things to his superiors, and then again to Dr Pritchard, he’d never told the complete and humiliating truth about what had happened that day. “You won’t look at me the same.”
Deacon pried the crayon out of Aaron’s hand and set it on the table before cradling Aaron’s much smaller hand in both of his. “If it helps, I’ll tell you the truth about the things I’ve done.”
“Why would you do that?” Deacon was a decorated Marine. Aaron doubted anything Deacon had done in the line-of-duty could be considered cowardice.
“Because I think you need to understand that not everyone comes away from war a hero, and that there’s absolutely no shame in being afraid.”
“I can’t