Kendle heard the haunted tone and understood more than anyone else could have, but she said nothing as she dug through the box of tools he'd pulled from a small attic space. "Clippers?" she asked, holding them up.
She saw his eyes darken. Clearly, he was struggling with something, a deep frown planting itself on his forehead. When he turned back toward the cabin without saying anything, she wondered again what crime had made him choose the painfulness of solitude over the quick end of suicide. He wasn't a coward, but he was doing penance, she was sure of it. Luke had been hurting himself for a long time and Kendle wanted it to stop. He'd done so much for her! She almost felt like a normal person again. There had to be something she could do for him in return, some way to ease his pain.
The jungle was alive around her, monkeys and squirrels chattering from vine-covered banyan trees and leafy palms that waved in the warm, dry wind. The sun was shining comfortably, the breeze light, and sometimes, like now, it felt like they were the only ones on this nearly deserted southern island. If not for the heavy, hurting heart that needed to know, she thought she could be happy here.
Luke came back out carrying a long, black sword case decorated with Marine patches, an American flag, and the initials, L.L.J. His blue eyes were dazed, far away, and Kendle watched curiously as he unzipped the bag, removing a worn machete. Shiny and no doubt deadly, he dropped the empty sheath into the thick paddle grass by her feet, mind clearly not in the present. She left him alone, eager to inspect the markings on the case.
The past instantly, vividly, came alive for Luke as he held the machete, the memories running up the blade and into his heart. He hadn't touched it in years, not since clearing the land where his cabin sat. After that, he had locked it up with the rest of his old life. The first swipe was sweet, powerful, and Luke was jerked through time, suddenly facing his greatest joy and his biggest bête noir.
The other men in his platoon had hated cutting a path through the dense jungles of Cambodia, griped constantly about the back-breaking, mind-numbing work, but not Luke. He understood that clearing their own road meant they were there before the enemy, before the mines and homemade traps meant to blow their legs a mile away. He'd been known as Whacker then, had used that excuse to explain always volunteering for point, but more than safety, hacking his own path gave him a feeling of power and control that the 16-year-old runaway had fallen in love with.