Saving Time

Chapter 4

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #11:

“If you’re short of everything but the enemy, you’re in a combat zone.”

Rig turned to his companion. “So, your friends are in Benavente?” She nodded and gestured west toward the river. Fair enough. He hoped they’d run into his Spanish contingent or the authorities, but now, he wasn’t counting on it.

He glanced at the battleground as it disappeared from sight. “Why did those men attack you?” She eyed him like he’d lost his mind. “Okay, stupid question. What are all those ‘French’ doing here?”

“That’s what the French deels do, invade other countries, as if ye dinnae ken.” The revulsion in her voice made him pause.

O-kay, new tack. “So, what were you doing here?”

“Searching for Emily.”

“Who?”

“Ensign Hershey’s wife.”

For a moment, her words didn’t register because the misery in her expression held his attention. Ensign? What was a naval officer’s wife doing lost in northern Spain? “You were looking for her up here?”

The woman pressed her lips together. “Nae, a’course no. Searching Castro Gonzalo, I was. When I found . . .” She took a breath, her lips trembling, then she said in a firmer voice, “The fiends discovered me and chased . . .” She gazed down at the reins, a bleak anger knotting her face.

“That’s two or more klicks—up hill. And you ran all the way up here?”

She nodded without looking at him.

“Why here?” He eyed her, but she said no more, her grimace showing pain and annoyance with his questions. Her story made no sense. The crowds in the valley could have offered help—or at least a place to hide among them. He wanted to ask more questions, but so far, the answers he’d gotten from both her and the Frenchman just confused the hell out of him. Damn, did it matter now?

He clenched his teeth and urged his horse westward, regardless of the jolting pain. The two of them trotted down into the Esla River valley.

~ ~ ~

Melissa blinked. She dinnae see double anymore. The pulsing, lightning strikes of pure agony had receded to a dull hammering in her pate. And her shoulder—it only ached, where minutes before the rolling gait of her mount had created tidal waves of burning misery.

She stole a glance at the soaring, tall man who had worked this miracle. If only he possessed a similar elixir for erasing her memories, healing her numb heart. She wished she could wash away the day, the images, and sounds—her friend Emily, the malicious, inhuman violence of the French monsters, the killing, and the humiliation of her nakedness.

She stole another glance at him. What he must think of me, having seen me in such a compromised state. She ran her tongue over chapped lips, afraid he did consider her ruined for respectable society.

For the last mile he had stared straight ahead, his bronze-brown face a tight mask behind those black spectacles. His steel-and-vinegar expression made her uneasy. In her entire life, she had never encountered such a strangely dressed or more oddly affected man, or one possessed of such miraculous weapons and medicines. But a Sassenach, all the same.

Yet alone he had engineered her rescue—just what Nana had promised of the medallion when there was need. She felt the weight of her grandmother’s pendant in the coat pocket and fought the overwhelming strangeness of it all, the unanswered questions swirling in her aching head. Melissa sighed. At least he isn’t English.

Her elbow caught a coat flap, and she wrinkled her nose. Even now, her fingers itched to drop the reins and tear the pocket open, only to see how the wondrous thing sealed closed again. She studied the queer patterns on the coat sleeve. There seemed to be little sense to them. It wasn’t a paisley or any decipherable design, but tiny tan, gray, and brown squares covering every article of the man’s clothing, though not his ridiculous hat with its small crown and flopping brim. Was the cloth pattern some clan or military herald?

All in all, he appeared a wee dighted, brave but touched in the head, making light while skewered with a sword. Battle mad? She hoped not. She’d seen the pain and terror of battle unhinge a soldier’s mind.

She gazed ahead at the land as it sloped down more than two miles to the river, bare, with only a few isolated oaks and scrubs to break the beige and patchy white monotony. The sun, just visible below heavy rain clouds, burned cold and orange ahead of them, ready to slip beyond the Cantabrian Mountains, and end this awful day. Somewhere in those mountains, the British army planned to retreat west, and between it and the two of them camped Napoleon’s multitudes. She could taste her fear and wondered if the man understood their desperate situation.

They reached the banks of the Eslar just as the sun touched the horizon, turning the underside of the dark clouds gold and pink. He rubbed his bandaged thigh as he frowned at the river, its churning gray water breeding predatory waves that leaped over and pounced on the rocks and tree branches thrown in their path.

He stopped and spoke, jerking her out of her reverie. “Do you know where there are any bridges?” She flinched at the unexpected, deep sound of the man’s voice, and then bared her teeth in frustration.

She hated her agitated state, these rickety flusters of hers, and she hated his ability to frighten her so easily simply because he was male. Her throat tightened, but she refused to shed any tears.

The man didn’t chide her or become angry. He calmly waited until she collected herself. He removed his dark spectacles. His calm eyes seemed to see everything.

Her face warm with her blushing, she pointed with her head. “Just the one north of here, destroyed by a monstrous great explosion yestereve. There are none here aboot, and any others crossing the Ezlar lie even farther north.”

“This is the Esla.”

“Captain, this is the River Ez-lar.”

He glanced at her with an exasperated twist to his mouth, and then surveyed the area, a mystified expression furrowing his brow. “There should be bridges and houses all over, this close to the Esla.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. Why do men assume women are all muttonheads? “There are nae any bridges.” The man was an officer, so any overbearing arrogance garnered twice the justification in male society. He glanced at his wristband again, showing irritation with the whole world for not doing what he thought it ought.

“It’s one-thirty in the afternoon, not sunset.” The man took off his hat and waved it at the river. “And where did all this damned water come from?” He turned to her, face set.

She had not the least idea what he was blathering on about, but he had spouted vulgar language in her presence too often. She felt she must say something. “Captain, your cursing.”

He blinked and then nodded. “Sorry, Mel. It won’t happen again.”

Mel? She warmed to his use of the diminutive. Nevertheless, it remained far too familiar in their situation, her situation. She needed to shore up what respect she could. Even a hearty ‘lass’ or ‘lassie’ was preferable.

“Please refer to me as Miss Graham.”

He gazed at her for a moment, lips pressed together, but then offered a warm smile. In the golden glow of the sunset, his teeth shone white, his eyes filled with bright humor. Melissa forgot to breathe.

He placed his hat over his heart as they rode a trail along the river. “I’m very glad to have met you, Miss Graham. You saved me from being shot.”

Melissa couldn’t help but return his smile, satisfied with his playful, but courteous response, unreasonably cheered. The man held a commission, confirming he was a gentleman.

“And ye are an American officer?” He nodded, studying the river while pocketing his dark eyeglasses. She shook her head. “How strange. And this is the uniform of your regiment?” She eyed the black chevron on the shoulder of the coat warming her. “The Rangers? This is what your regiment wears in the wilds of your continent?”

He grinned at her words. “The 75th? Yep, pretty much.”

“A Ranger like Colonial Roger’s Rangers from the French and Indian War?” She remembered the Americans called their jaegers and riflemen rangers.

He nodded. “The same idea. And how do you know about the Rangers?”

“The Scots are fighting men. I have several kin like my uncle who have fought in Britain’s wars.” She frowned. “And what, pray tell, are ye doing in Spain?”

The captain blew out his breath. “Damned if . . .” He glanced at her and shrugged an apology, his expression stiff. “I made the mistake of getting . . .” He didn’t finish, but studied her, squinting. “As a matter of fact, in a situation very similar to this one. A trip to Spain was my punishment.” He glanced down to where his hand held his thigh, bright blood staining the cloth around it, and a muscle knotted along his jaw.

His words explained nothing. However, his tone held an anger and self-loathing that surprised her. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. “What mistake could you make which would lead to Spain?”

He didn’t immediately answer, as they rode along, instead studying their surroundings. “My team was assigned a block patrol in Kandahar, an incredibly stupid use of Rangers.”

“Where?”

“Afghanistan.” He glanced at her. “Heard of it?”

Melissa nodded. She always had loved maps and geography but could not fathom why an American captain would be there.

When she didn’t respond, he rode on. After a time, she shook her head at his taciturn behavior. “Captain?”

He rubbed his face. “Right. One day on patrol, we heard a woman screaming and men’s laughter.” His paused for the significance to be acknowledged by her. She motioned him to continue. “We caught five men attempting to rape the daughter of the local headman, a smart man named Firash. The men were part of a rival family who had lost power when we kicked the Taliban out of Kandahar. We arrested the men. They were headed for prison.

“Soon afterward, my team was given a legitimate backcountry assignment. We returned two weeks later to find the arrested men had been freed, the girl and her entire family murdered. A Bruce Simmons of our foreign office had allied with the head of the rival family and freed the men, because he felt they could do a better job controlling those city blocks.

“When I confronted Simmons about the murders, he claimed ‘Freeing the men was a tactical decision.’” The captain glared off across the river valley as they worked their way downhill. “With a smarmy little smile, the bastard had shrugged and added, ‘In war, people get hurt.’”

“What did you do?”

“I agreed with him and beat him senseless. Spain was my punishment.”

A sad and ugly story, but much made little sense to Melissa. How could the US Army have his company policing a city in Afghanistan, and then just up and send him alone to another country, another war as punishment? “What is the United States Army doing so far east?”

“Lots of folks are asking that question.”

He seemed to consider her in return. “I’m hoping you can tell me what’s going on here, Me—” He turned up a corner of his mouth. “Miss Graham, because I don’t recognize this Spain. Right now, I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to get across this river before those Frenchmen see us.” He pointed with his chin behind them.

Melissa twisted around in the saddle. Two miles up the sunset-colored hills, she saw the dark silhouettes of a cavalry column outlined against a bright bank of pink clouds. Melissa and the captain spurred their horses toward some river willows crowding a nearby gully.

~ ~ ~

From the cover of the trees, Rig watched the French column move off to the south and disappear over a distant rise. Were they looking for them?

Of course they were. He scanned the river and hills, wondering how the terrain could be so unfamiliar. No roads or houses, signs—nothing. The surreal landscape left him with a helpless, out-of-control feeling, like waking up in the middle of a bad war movie without knowing the sides. He didn’t even know what questions to ask.

Ranger training included tests designed to disorient the participants and play with their heads. You succeeded by focusing on procedures, your training, and being flexible in the moment. The backcountry in Iraq and Afghanistan were disorienting enough, but this?

He gripped the reins tighter and turned to Mel. “You stay put. I’m going to see if I can find a ford or bridge, or at least a place to hide for the night.”

“Nae, I will no.”

Rig gave her a hard look. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

In a haughty British accent, she said, “Hence, my unreserved reply.”

“What?”

She held up the hand holding the reins to her mount. “I certainly will not ‘stay put’ while you go haring off. I can’t control the other beasty with one hand.”

He squinted at her. “What is with your sliding in and out of that upper-crust British accent?”

“I employ it when it is necessary to make my intent comprehensible to foreigners.”

With a killing glance her way, Rig picked up the reins to the packhorse and, his tone dripping sarcastic sweetness, said, “I’ll take him.”

She spoke as if she were stating the obvious to a child, a Scottish child. “If ye find a ford, I will be with ye, rather than ye wasting precious daylight in returning for me. If either of us are spied, at least we’ll be together.”

Rig pulled impatiently at the reins when the packhorse lowered his head to graze. He winced at the pain it ignited along his shoulder. He felt his control unraveling. “Look, MissGraham, I gave—”

“An order?” She shook her head at him and moved her horse closer and slid into the British vowels again. “What did the Duke of Marlborough write about dividing one’s forces in the face of the enemy?”

Rig scowled at her. Her Scots had disappeared, and she scolded him in aristocratic English. “You’re quoting tactics to me?” It was like arguing with his Grandma Riggs in two languages, scrupulously formal and scathingly opinionated. And like his grandmother, she made sense, which infuriated him even more. He was in no mood for insubordination, however logical. “I’m going to that bend in the river up ahead. You’ll be safer hidden here. I’ll be in your line of sight the entire time.”

She sighed and glanced at the roiling waters. “Aye, yet we do have time to dawdle here in tim debate?” Lips pressed together, she raised one dark brow and waited.

“Dawdle? Of all the stubborn . . .” Rig swallowed a retort, eyeing her set expression, her scratched face, bruised and swollen. If she is this obstinate in her condition, then . . . He snarled his frustration at the implications.

There was no way he could force her to stay. “Fine.” He kicked his horse, and it climbed up out of the trees. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, General? Let’s get a move on.”

She brushed stray hair away from her face, and with a low “Och, men,” she urged her bay to follow.

A deer trail paced the river and they walked along it, one eye out for fords, and the other on the slopes above, searching for any sign of the French. After a mile or more, the trail angled over the riverbank and into the water. Across the seventy meters of river, he could make out the trail where it started up again, a line of brown dirt plowing through grass and snow on the other bank.

Rig studied the rushing water as it splashed and roiled over a line of small rocks where the river widened. The water should be shallower here. As the last of the sun disappeared, he noticed a thick fog rising off the ground across the river.

“Captain.”

When he turned to her, Mel nodded up the slope. A thousand meters away, twenty or more horsemen trotted over a rise. He didn’t think they’d seen the two of them against the river undergrowth, but it would only be a matter of minutes. “Well, Miss Graham.” He grinned. “Feel like a swim?”