Medicine Man. Cheryl Reavis

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      There had been a time when he’d been so sure, when he had actually thought that he could be both an army medic and a practitioner of the Navajo healing arts. He had told Arley the truth. He really could remember things—the chants and the details of the sand paintings necessary for the healing ceremonies with the precision the Holy People required. And he could remember all the medical procedures he’d been taught. He could even manage a high-powered weapon and urgent wound assessment on a computerized dummy in the dark and not let it go into cardiac arrest or bleed out. As far as he knew, no patient in either venue had ever suffered from a misstep that he could recall—except for the dummy, and that was early on. He had believed that all he had to do was not let himself get distracted. His desire to make all four of his “mothers” proud of him was strong, and so was his sense of obligation.

      But somewhere he had lost his way, lost something integral he couldn’t name; in the process, he had lost himself. He couldn’t blame the army. He couldn’t blame anyone. He had felt his sense of purpose and understanding, of belonging, slipping away from him long before he’d enlisted.

      All he had left was a kind of perpetual discord in his heart and in his mind—and an unwelcome and unwise interest in Arley Meehan.

      And he was definitely interested. He had been interested the first time he saw her, and he was still interested enough to want to go to a wedding on the outside chance that he would at least catch a glimpse of her, in spite of having no place in his disjointed life for personal involvements, especially the kind she represented. She had a child, and he was only passing through, regardless of his own tenuous family tie to the state. She was so pretty, so lively. Of all the guests at the wedding, she was the one he had wanted most to talk to, but it wasn’t just that. She wasn’t like anyone he had ever met. Aside from her obvious attributes, she was…astute. Right away, she had seen the advantage of his being posted in the state where the father he knew practically nothing about had been born. He doubted that anyone in his family had guessed that he had signed his enlistment papers thinking that he could eventually end up in central North Carolina.

      He drew a sharp breath. If he were more like his half brother Patrick, he wouldn’t let himself get all strung up in the reasons for, and the potential consequences of, his behavior. He would just go for it. He would see Arley Meehan as someone to help him pass the time—period. He would do something about it and not be concerned about anything but the pure pleasure of it.

      But he wasn’t like Patrick. He wasn’t even like himself anymore.

      I don’t know who the hell I am or where I belong, he thought.

      And he was running out of time to find out. He’d made all the arrangements he was supposed to make—his affairs were in order. When he’d been home last Christmas, he’d even allowed the Blessing Way to be performed on his behalf, an all-night Navajo ceremony that was supposed to make it possible for him to go to war with the blessing of the Holy People, even if he didn’t actually believe in them anymore.

      But he hadn’t gone looking for the better understanding of his long-dead white father he used to think he wanted.

      The Baron home place, the big house with a rambling front porch he knew only from photographs, still belonged to Sloan, and it was perpetually rented. He hadn’t wanted to see it for the first time under those circumstances—with strange people living in it—or so he told himself. Besides that, it was located at the far end of his travel limit, and he had used that as an excuse, as well. Somebody in his squad would probably know a short cut, even if it involved driving through a surprised farmer’s corn field, but he hadn’t asked. Clearly, standing in the middle of his father’s past in theory was very different from actually doing it. If he were completely honest, he would admit that he hadn’t delved into the Baron family history because he was afraid to. He was unsettled enough as it was and not ready to find that his white heritage fit him no better than his Navajo heritage did.

      A memory of Arley’s young son suddenly came into his mind. He had immediately recognized the look in the boy’s eyes. It came for being caught up in a whirlwind of uncontrollable adult events and being afraid to deal with it alone. He had seen the same expression all too often in the mirror when he was a boy, when Sloan and the tribe were squabbling over who he belonged to and who could raise him.

      He sighed again in the dark. He had to stop thinking about Arley Meehan and her little boy and the problem she was apparently having with the man who had once been her husband. He had troubles of his own. He had to keep the family from worrying. It was natural that they would be worried about his likely imminent deployment, but they didn’t know about his loss of direction. He’d told them nothing of his misgivings, and there was nothing he could do to reassure them.

      So how homesick are you?

      Maybe more than he had realized, he thought as he felt his harmony dissipate even further in a sudden wave of longing for home. He missed his patched-up, mismatched family. He missed the desert, the place where he almost belonged. He missed…something unnameable, something a brief conversation with a pretty young woman had made him suddenly aware might be unavailable to him.

      He took a quiet breath, trying to concentrate on the calm place deep inside him, the one he was only able to find after he had decided to be truly Navajo. The words of the Hozhonji song swirled in his mind. The song had great power. It spoke of helpmates and pairs and beauty.

      The happiness of all things.

      It was a blessing he would have said for Arley’s sister and her new husband if the wedding had taken place in Window Rock instead of North Carolina, and if he were still himself.

      Maybe we’ll run into each other again.

      Chapter Three

      “Have you called home in the last couple of weeks, E.T.?” Copus asked pointedly.

      “Yeah,” Will answered, getting better and better at deciphering Copus’s science fiction analogies.

      “Written any letters?”

      “Yeah, why?”

      “Mailed them?”

      “Copus—”

      “You’re sure you haven’t been neglecting the keeping-in-touch-with-the-family-in-a-timely-manner thing.”

      “I’m sure.”

      “Well, it ain’t that, then.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “The lieutenant is looking for you, son,” Copus said ominously. “I got it straight from the horse’s mouth—a couple of stalls removed. Any minute now, he’s going to be wanting to see you ASAP.”

      Will accepted the prediction without comment. He was mildly curious, but he kept stacking long packages of unsterile 4x4 gauze on the supply closet shelf. The unit phone was ringing in the background—making no impression whatsoever on the obviously non-busy Copus.

      “Could I at least get a ‘hooah’ so I know you heard me?” Copus said.

      “Hooah.”

      “Son, how do you do that?” Copus asked.

      “Do what?”

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