Page 20 of Shifting Years (Whispering Hills #5)

My father spat between my boots, the thick glob of spit pooling on the cell floor. His icy blue eyes—eyes I'd never forget—burned with more than hate. "Bad enough you're that other thing, but a draft dodger too? You couldn't even be man enough to serve?"

I could've checked. Could've known but didn't. Vietnam was my father's proxy war, his legacy. I was supposed to follow in the footsteps of the men in my family. But none of them were like me. So why not be different there?

"The war will make a man out of you, or you'll die. Either way, I won't have an embarrassment for a son."

The town's sheriff entered the room, and my father spun to scream at him to leave, until he noticed the dark-haired teenage boy. "He shouldn't be here. Get him out."

"He's my son, and I decide where he goes. Not you. You're using my cell, and I've been plenty cooperative. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell me how to raise my kid."

"I'm talking to a prisoner."

"No, you're yelling at him."

"He's a draft-dodging queer!"

"Don't care."

My father didn't get surprised often. Loving another man was wrong and against everything decent. How could this sheriff not see it?

My father shook his head muttering about the decline of morals in America. "Vietnam. Be a man." He turned without saying goodbye and left the room. Was this the last time I'd see him?

The sheriff's handlebar mustache twitched as he patted his son softly. The bayou ladies said the eighties would be terrible for him. Decency said to warn him of a vague upcoming tragedy, but common sense and intuition screamed it'd be a 'Very Bad Idea.'

The black, metal door opened with a long squeak. "You could run, but you'll bring attention to Whispering Hills. People can remember us with enough help, especially if there's a paper trail."

Running wasn't an option. Taking a pregnant man on the road and bringing an investigation to a shifter town would hurt everyone . My wolf wanted me to stay and protect my Omega, but for all my supernatural power, I couldn't fight our government.

I made a deal with the witches, and the sheriff promised to watch over Mike, even without me asking.

"I'll go."

"Why?" asked Wyatt. I smiled. The teenager was smart and wanted to learn. He'd make a kind sheriff one day.

'It's my duty' sounded like my father's words. "Because this helps the most people," I said. "If I can take the pain for our town, and my Omega, it's worth it."

He accepted my answer, and his dad nodded.

It was just a few seconds of practice, but I'd be a good father because I knew what not to do. The trouble was, I wouldn't be around.

***

They say Omegas are emotional, but who wouldn't cry in a jail cell if their mate went off to fight? The war couldn't last much longer; Nixon's increased campaign was supposed to force an end soon. Jokes to Mike that Vietnam would soon be America's newest state got no smiles.

"How could you, Todd? You want to go. You talked about it when we met. You have a family here!"

"So do other people. If I stay, it'll bring attention to them. There's pack responsibility."

"What about to your Omega? I'm pregnant." He stepped back, rumbling the open jail cell door.

"This is looking out for you!"

"With Henry still in town?"

"You got the bayou ladies and sheriff on our side. Penny and Mary offered without asking. All the others you've been cooking for said they'd check in."

He spoke as if he were thinking out loud. "I know about those damn talk shows on the radio. You perk up like a wolf smelling a rabbit when Nixon speaks. You're a goddamn warmonger."

He looked down but buried himself in my chest. The sheriff had the decency to leave the cell door open.

"And you're a hippie who never dressed in tie-dyes and listened to nonsense books, and I wouldn't have you any other way."

He said nothing for several seconds. "Tell me you'll be back soon. Promise. Swear it on your soul."

It was war and I could die like other young men. Yet, I was his Alpha and had to please my Omega. "Sure. I promise I'll come back to you after the fighting's done. That's my wish."

I hope I phrased it right.

***

The airplane trip zipped by in a blur. Basic training used to be longer for everyone, and I didn't know if this massive rush meant something. Nixon said more men would overwhelm the enemy forces and get a decisive victory.

Maybe it was the way I handled a weapon, my father's name that fast-tracked me, or some brass satisfied because I was 'raised around it.' Instead of normal training, I became a grunt while memories of Mike's touch were still fresh.

My father managed to plan my life for me anyway.

So, I ended up in a foreign jungle under constant, hard rain with new brothers. Parker, Trejo, Gonzalez, Taylor, and more.

Close to my chest was a letter, sealed in a plastic baggie, just like the one Mike had given me years ago. It was the latest message from 'Stacy,' my supposed girl back home, in case anyone read our letters. It was the only way to still talk to my man.

Our boots made drawn-out, slurping sounds in the thick mud before we came to a halt. Silently, my CO ordered me to search ahead. I wiped the rain from my brow, dealing with extra information my new brothers didn't notice unless any were hidden shifters.

Yet another way I'm different.

To the left, two hundred feet in front of our group, was a wet tree with a few inches of bark sliced off. A small stake kept a branch bent back, ready to strike. We'd have to trip it with a long stick, so nobody got sliced with sharpened bamboo. I gestured so he'd see.

"Anything else?" my CO's deep voice cut through the falling rain.

The dank, swamp overpowered most other smells, and the Vietcong don't smell much different from our boys. The unusual food they ate helped, but the leaves and beating rain demanded my attention. It was like hearing a whisper at a concert. Again, I sniffed while staring hard, but no warning came.

Green water erupted, launching sludge and shattered foliage into the air.

Fire roared through the jungle. Shifter ears burned with the razor-sharp shriek of bullets.

There was no dodging it. No cover, no escape.

Boys—some barely old enough to shave—screamed.

Green cloth ripped open, splashing red over brown, black, and white skin.

I lost my rifle in the pain but picked up another from a brother who'd never shoot again. It jammed. Later, I'd hear how our guns warped in the rain. Seemed like a weapon to not send into a wet jungle, but in the moment, all I could do was wish I'd survive the war so I'd see Mike again.

***

I could almost believe it had been a dream, but my brain knew better.

Short, blurry angry Vietnamese soldiers with bayonets came, poking my brothers laying down in the water.

I had a sense of one blade slicing into my leg, and after screaming, I laid in a bamboo cage.

Stripes of green camouflage were wrapped around my bullet wounds.

Two other men were stripped down to underwear with their backs against bamboo. The fourth man was a light-skinned guy with an eagle tattoo on his right arm. His name wouldn't come to me, no matter how hard I tried. The sickly-sweet smell meant he wouldn't respond if I did.

It seemed like I should know the names of a Black guy with short dark-brown hair and the other brown guy with a shaved head.

"You okay, Todd?" asked the black one. "Beyond the obvious?"

The other gestured to my head. In response, I rubbed my head and immediately winced. Sticky, red blood decorated my fingertips.

Both men introduced themselves as Tyrone and Luis. Slowly, I remembered them as Parker and Trejo. I should have remembered more. My mind was a fog of Nixon's voice crackling through a black-and-white television, the splintered wood of an obstacle course in Basic, and… a blonde girl?

"Girl?" I whispered.

Tyrone watched the thin Vietcong soldiers patrolling the camp. Once they were far enough away, he brushed away dirt, revealing a letter inside a plastic baggie. "This fell out when they tore our uniforms."

The letter said my girl was Stacy, but I had guessed Donna or Diana. No matter her name, I was going to be a father? A headache came as I read she was near the end of her pregnancy. There it was in black and white, but why did it feel like a lie?

***

I'll escape, but that work camp leader expected it. Our side wanted freedom, and they needed prisoners. We were caged and faced pointed guns in the hands of men who weren't on a rice ration. Easy to see who'd win.

Rushing would throw my life away and I had a girl and son waiting for me.

All I had to do was be patient and plan.

***

My hands froze into claws as I dug into cold, wet soil. Images of perfectly cut lawns came to mind—maybe that's where Donna, or was it Stacy, lived.

What did she have? A boy, girl, twins?

***

I won… in a way. The commander had us make sharp bamboo traps to use against our boys on patrol. I made sure they'd break easily. So easy, I heard it backfired on an enemy soldier. Now it's been over one month in a small cage… I think. It couldn't be longer, could it?

***

How much time has passed? They let us have beards or they didn't want to waste time on us. There was something so right about it. Stroking dark 'fur' brought dim memories of a big dog or maybe two, but I don't think I had one.

I don't remember much of anything anymore. What happened?

***

A new prisoner, a thin black kid named Bobby, managed to swipe a pencil.

It was too short to use as a weapon, but he was nice enough to draw my big dream dogs on the back of my still-hidden letter from Stacy.

He said my description was more of a wolf than a dog but sketched them anyway.

He also drew my wife and possible kid, but for some reason, they and not the giant animals were unbelievable.

***