by Judy Duarte
“I can’t see him?”
Gil broke his rigid posture and went to the woman’s side, taking her hand from the funeral director. “Mrs. Baker, Al wouldn’t want you to see him now. He’d be very grateful if you didn’t. Trust me.”
“Sgt. York is right,” said Mr. Baker, speaking for the first time. “He’s right, Betsy.”
The woman squeezed her eyes closed and more huge tears rolled down her face. “All right,” she whispered. “All right.” Then her voice strengthened. “There’s a supper afterward, Gil. Please come. I’m sure Al would like that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then he resumed his post, rigid as steel, all the barriers back in place. Little could touch him there, and there he remained. Service tomorrow at two. Interment at three. Then back to base.
He’d done this before. He wanted never to do it again.
* * *
At graveside the next day, Miriam Baker, Al’s younger cousin, stood nervously by the riflemen who were part of the honor guard. She knew most of the guard because they lived in the county, and they’d let her know exactly what to expect and when she was to play her trumpet. They’d bucked her up, too, assuring her she’d do just fine. She wasn’t nearly as certain as she pretended to be. Al’s loss had carved a hole in her heart that kept tightening her chest at unexpected moments. If that happened while she played “Taps”...
Another car arrived, one she didn’t recognize. It stopped in an area away from the gravesite. Then, unfolding from it, was a tall man in army blue, with white gloves on his hands and a green beret that he immediately put on his head. For a moment, he stood surveying the scene: six uniformed pallbearers waiting beside the gravel road. The three riflemen near her.
Gil York. It had to be, even though he hadn’t come to the supper last night.
All of a sudden she felt seriously inadequate. The wind whipped her navy-blue concert gown around her lower legs as if trying to pick her up and sweep her away. Only the familiar weight of the trumpet in her hand pinned her to the ground.
Gil York was Al’s best friend. Everyone had known in advance that he was bringing Al home. He was also the NCOIC, according to Wade Kendrick and the other vets who had gathered around her extended family in the days since the news arrived. Noncommissioned officer in charge. He would be making sure the entire honor guard did a clean and perfect job.
And then there was her. She could feel his gaze fixate on her. He exchanged salutes with the pallbearers as he passed them, said something that caused them to relax for a moment.
Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, looking as if he’d been carved from granite and put in that dressy uniform. “Ms. Baker,” he said. “I’m Gil York.”
“I know,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m supposed to stand thirty to fifty yards away, right?” Cling to the orders for the day, try not to think too hard about her loss. Everyone’s loss.
“That’s not as much my concern, ma’am, as you are.”
“Me?” Her voice cracked. She was not ordinarily a mouse, but since word had been delivered that Al had been killed, a lot of things seemed to have turned topsy-turvy.
“‘Taps’ is very difficult to play, Ms. Baker. And I don’t mean musically. This is going to be very difficult for you emotionally. If you have any doubt about your ability, let me know. I have the authorized digital recording with me.”
Her back stiffened a bit. “It’s something I can do for Al. I want to do it. I’ll cry later.”
Their eyes locked, hers as blue as the summer sky, his as gray as rain-wet slate.
“Very well,” he said after a few stretched-out seconds. “If you change your mind, just let me know.” Then he turned to the riflemen, who told him they’d already picked out the location for them and for Miri.
Sgt. York approved, saluted and started to pivot away. Suddenly he turned back. “Commander Hardin?”
Seth Hardin, decked out in dark navy blue, smiled faintly. “It’s been a while, Sergeant.”
“Yes, it has.” He nodded, then pivoted and marched away.
There was steel in the man’s spine, Miriam thought. She wondered if he ever walked normally, or if he was forever marching, executing tight corners and sharp about-faces.
Not today. Certainly not today.
She and the riflemen backed up to the small knoll Seth Hardin had chosen for them. Thirty to fifty yards from the gravesite for them and the bugler. Apparently, everything was measured out with these formalities.
She only wished she had a real bugle, but the trumpet was acceptable. At least she was sure she could play it.
Events began to blur. The hearse arrived. Family and friends crowded into the chairs that had been set up at the gravesite. The grave itself was covered by the machinery that would lower Al into his resting place later. For now, everything was hidden beneath a blanket of artificial turf, shockingly green against the duller, dry countryside.
Then she heard commands being barked. The moment had come. Six men in uniforms of various services eased the coffin from the back of the hearse and carried her cousin with measured steps to the grave.
Miri’s throat tightened until she felt as if a wire garrote wrapped it. She drew slow breaths, calming herself. Weeping could come later. She had a service to perform for Al.
The minister spoke a few words, led them in a prayer. Then Sgt. York turned toward the distant riflemen and saluted. Even though she stood ten yards from them, Miri could hear the snap as they brought their rifles up and aimed them to the sky.
A command was spoken and three rifle volleys rang out, one after the other. Then, with a snap, the rifles returned to a position that crossed the men’s chests.
She glanced toward York and saw him waiting at attention. Her turn. She lifted the trumpet and began playing the sorrowful notes for Al. A hush seemed to come over the entire world. She didn’t notice that tears ran down her cheeks. Had no way to tell that no eyes were dry as the lonesome call carried over the countryside.
She made it all the way through. Tears nearly blinded her as the pallbearers stepped forward, folding the flag with perfect precision before handing it to Sgt. York. He pivoted sharply and walked to stand directly before Al’s parents. With the flag at waist height he bent forward and spoke, his determined voice carrying on the stirring breeze.
“On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Mrs. Baker took the flag and held it to her chest, her sobs becoming audible.
Then the entire honor guard withdrew, leaving the family to its private time of grief.
Something made Miri run, her trumpet case banging against her leg. She didn’t run away, but rather straight to Sgt. York, who was about to climb into his car.
“Sergeant!” she called. Her voice sounded disturbingly loud, but she didn’t care. He’d been Al’s friend. These moments were for him, too.
He paused, then pivoted to face her. Still the stern-faced soldier. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked quietly when she reached him.
“You can’t just go. Please at least let us know how to contact you. Al’s stories...well, we feel like you’re part of the family, too.”
He hesitated a moment. “Do you have a pad and pen? There’s very little I can fit into a dress uniform without looking sloppy.”
“I imagine.” She was in a luckier position. Her trumpet case contained the paper and pen. He scribbled down an email address. Nothing more. It was enough. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“No need. Al deserved a whole lot more.” Then he opened the car door and removed a paper-wrapped parcel, the size of a large book. “Give this to Al’s mother and father, please. I had a bunch of photos I thought they’d like. I was
going to mail it but... You did well, Ms. Baker.”
Then he climbed in the car and, like the rest of the honor guard, disappeared from sight.
Miri stood holding the wrapped package, sorrow and loss emptying her heart. She missed Al like the devil. But she suspected Gil York missed him even more.
Copyright © 2018 by Susan Civil Brown
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Judy Duarte for her contribution to The Fortunes of Texas: The Rulebreakers continuity.
ISBN-13: 9781488093395
No Ordinary Fortune
Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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