Ride The Tiger. Lindsay McKenna

watched the Vietnamese peasants as the woman spoke their language, her words soft and halting. He was struck by how melodic her voice was—like the song of a beautiful tropical bird. Trying to put some distance between his own shock and helping her, Gib realized for the first time just how truly attractive the woman was, although her face was pale beneath the golden tones of her skin, her emerald eyes dark with anguish and her delicate mouth pulled inward, reflecting her pain.

      He stood quietly with her in his arms as the farmers ran on to help the marines with the fire. Looking down, he saw her close her eyes and draw in a deep, shaky breath. “What’s your name?” he asked gently.

      Dany opened her eyes and, looking up, saw compassion in the marine’s large, intelligent hazel eyes. “Dany...Dany Villard...”

      “Call me Gib. Come on, let’s get you inside, Mrs. Villard. You need to sit down.” Villard. The name rang a definite bell for Gib. He’d heard of the plantation, and the politics of its French owners: supposedly they were neutral. But were they actively supporting VC operations to maintain that neutrality? And who had planted the land mine? ARVN or VC? Maybe the local militia? Or some unnamed splinter group? He stared down at Dany Villard’s half-hidden face, wondering if she were a VC sympathizer. War had no neutrality as far as he was concerned, and more than once his colonel had shown his frustration and disgust over the Villard neutrality policy. At the time, Gib had merely shrugged it off, glad he had a helicopter squadron to run and therefore didn’t have to interface with this country’s complex politics the way his boss did.

      They walked along the brick expanse without talking. Although part of Dany still couldn’t believe her mother was dead, deep down she knew it was true. She felt a huge emptiness inside her, a chilling numbness spreading in the wake of her shock. What was wrong with her? Automatically, she pressed her hand against her stomach.

      “Are you feeling sick?” Gib remembered too many times when he’d gotten sick after combat.

      “No, just...numb.... I feel so numb, as if I’m dead inside.”

      He guided her up the series of wooden steps and through the screen door that housed a huge, wide veranda. A wizened old woman, dressed in a black overblouse, opened the heavily carved door. Gib nodded to her, hoping she spoke some English. He knew only rudimentary Vietnamese.

      “Where’s the living room? Mrs. Villard needs to sit down,” he said slowly. The marine in him felt on guard, edgy, wondering if the gray-haired woman could be a VC spy. Nothing in Vietnam was neutral. Ever.

      The maid tilted her head, her eyes widening enormously as she took in Gib. Instantly she stepped aside, her shock obviously replaced with genuine concern for Dany.

      The maid motioned for Gib to follow her. Still Gib didn’t release Dany as they entered the massive foyer with its floor of highly polished golden teak. “Let me get you to a chair,” he told her.

      “In here,” the old woman ordered and pointed to a room to the left of the foyer. “I call doctor,” she said in broken English and disappeared.

      A good idea, Gib thought. Dany was going to need medication. The shock had been too great for her to bear. He led Dany into what he assumed was a drawing room, painted white with gilt edging along the baseboards. Photographs hung on every wall. He helped her over to a French provincial sofa of light blue silk framed in mahogany. As he gently released her onto the couch, Gib realized she had begun to tremble in earnest.

      Looking around, his hand still on her shoulder, he asked, “You got some liquor around this place?”

      “Yes.” Dany motioned to a mahogany sideboard that sat next to a window. “It’s in there.”

      Investigating, Gib found a stock of just about every kind of liquor he’d ever seen. Drawing out a bottle of peach brandy, he located a snifter and poured a hefty amount into it. He brought it to Dany and, kneeling in front of her, placed it in her hands.

      “Take a sip,” he urged. “It’ll help steady your nerves.”

      Dany stared down at the golden liquid, the sweet odor of peaches wafting toward her nose. She clasped the snifter tightly, afraid that it might tumble out of her grip.

      Gib reached out and settled his hand on Dany’s slumped shoulder. How large his hand looked in relation to hers, he thought disjointedly. She was slender, like the tall, thin bamboo that grew in huge groves. Her bones seemed especially small and fine in comparison to his bulk. “Go on, take a drink of it. I promise, it’ll do you some good.”

      Numbly, Dany did as he coaxed and lifted the snifter to her lips. The brandy hit the back of her throat, and she gasped. Closing her eyes, she gulped the rest of it down. The pit of her stomach felt on fire, bringing renewed tears to her eyes.

      Retrieving the glass from Dany’s hand, Gib sat down next to her on the couch. The maid came into the room and hovered protectively next to Dany, her hands worriedly kneading Dany’s shoulders, her voice soft and shaken as they conversed in Vietnamese. Gib’s nerves felt jangled from the mine explosion. Again he wondered if the two women in front of him were enemy or friend.

      “Ma Ling, go help our people,” Dany said softly to her mamasan. “There are marines out there. Try to get them to leave as soon as possible.”

      Ma Ling nodded grimly. “You will be all right?”

      “Y-yes. Please, just get rid of the marines. If Binh Duc—”

      Patting Dany’s shoulder, Ma Ling muttered, “I will take care of it. The doctor will be here soon, and he will take care of you.”

      Trying to smile and unable to, Dany felt her eyes tear up with love for her maid. “Thank you,” she whispered.

      Ma Ling raised her head and glared at Gib, then straightened and left the room.

      Leaning forward, Dany rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Her hair fell forward, offering a semblance of privacy from the American marine. Odd to be so near an American, she thought. Her father had been French and proud of it. And, although American-born, Dany’s mother had learned to accept her husband’s cultivated disdain for all things American, so Dany had grown up believing the American blood she carried in her veins was of lesser value. But when the Americans had landed on the pristine white beaches of Da Nang a few weeks ago, Dany had found herself curious about them. It was easy to dislike them and their intrusive presence, upsetting the fragile peace among the various political factions. Still, she had wondered at odd moments what Americans were really like, since she had never had the chance to see for herself—until now.

      There was something disturbing and uncomfortable about this marine’s presence, Dany thought, but wasn’t sure why. He’d certainly helped her in a great moment of need.

      The fire in her stomach gradually ceased, and miraculously, Dany felt her shaking nerves become more stable. Slowly she turned her head to meet the American’s gaze. For the first time, she really looked at him. His face was square and generous, as was his mouth and broad brow. His dark brown eyebrows were straight across his hazel eyes, which held the look of a hunter, a predator, in their depths. She reminded herself that he had said to call him Gib. His eyes were hard, she thought, the aura around him coiled and tension-filled.

      All her defenses had been shattered, and Dany couldn’t have erected her normal French aloofness toward the American if she’d tried. Gib’s face was harsh looking, carved out of life’s experiences—not what was usually considered handsome. When his mouth flexed into a hesitant, coaxing smile as he held out the brandy snifter to her once again, a sudden warmth cascaded through Dany taking away the coldness of reality. The amiable quality caught her off guard. He was supposed to be a soldier, incapable of compassion. The discovery made her feel even more confused.

      “Better take one more sip and you’ll really steady out,” Gib urged softly, holding the snifter in her direction. He tried to disconnect emotionally from her, but the look in her eyes shattered his normally insurmountable defenses. Never, in the last two years, had he felt this damned vulnerable. What the