Chapter 6
Murphy’s Laws of Combat #23:
“Anything you do can get you killed—
which includes doing nothing.”
“Die of w-w-what?”
“Hypothermia. You got far wetter than I did.” He knelt before her with a groan and a lopsided grin. “The river hasn’t numbed my leg enough.” With stiff fingers, he undid his fatigue coat, as the captain named it. He took it off her and laid it by the fire. He then leaned over to remove her sodden socks.
His apparent intention to undress her chilled her far more than the air. Melissa could not comprehend such unseemly behavior, and he’d laid hands on her without permission. She must have lost all respectability in his eyes.
“Captain.”
He glanced up at the sharp tone in her words.
“If ye will untie m-my arm, I will-will change me brats, m-me self.” She could not keep from stammering with the chill, but she tried to appear implacable in her request.
“Your what?”
“My clothes.”
“Mel, you’re in no shape to do anything at the moment.”
“Captain, I am quite capable of, of undressing and dressing myself.” She cringed at even discussing this with him. “And-and it’s-it’s Miss Graham.”
His eyes became sharp shards of light as he stood. “Well, Miss Graham, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen already. We need to do this quickly.”
“If ye were a gentleman, ye-ye would not have . . . Of all the coarse-tongued . . .” She could not think of what to say in response to such a shameless remark. Her anger gave her new strength. “If ye will untie my arm, I will dress in dry clothes while ye tend the horses.”
He gazed intently at her for a moment, anger smoldering in his eyes. She feared he intended to undress her forcibly, now that they had shared such unusual intimacy in the last hours. “Or we can prattle on until ye and I freeze dead.”
He slowly stood, and reaching down, pulled a wide-bladed dirk from a sheath above his boot. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the blade, frightening in its strange design. Long and black instead of shiny steel, half the top edge of the evil-looking thing displayed serrated teeth, like some wild animal.
Her dismay must have been obvious because he paused and then looked where she was staring. Brows still knotted, he grunted then frowned at her, which made her all the more alarmed.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. We are both hurting and freezing.” He held up the knife. “I’m going to cut the ties,” he said, gestured to the strips that held her arm against her body. “I doubt that I could untie them even if they were dry.” Then he waited.
Melissa wrestled her battered emotions back under control. At her harsh reactions to his behavior, her defensiveness, and fears, she closed her eyes. “I apologize too, for my m-missish take, Captain. P-Please, cut them.”
He studied her in an odd manner, making her feel like a fool. He leaned close and quickly severed the linen encircling her body and arm. Last, he removed the sling. It was such a relief. Mercifully, her shoulder only ached with her arm free. She unbuttoned the speckled beige coat and let if fall.
She took a deep breath and undid the shirt. The ache in her back and shoulder from today’s struggles made her flinch. She arched her back, but then she caught him eyeing her chest. The thermal shirt underneath was revealed. Still damp, the air chilled her all the more.
She couldn’t think for embarrassment and alarm. She’d seen that same avid intensity in the Frenchmen’s eyes. She pulled the blanket close around her again, her face prickling as she stared straight ahead.
What could she say that would not call more attention to her body and their situation? She bit her lip, not wanting to doubt Captain Starke. He had hardly acted the wanton cad, but he hadn’t given her common respect either. She knew men, particularly officers and soldiers of every stripe.
They were unpredictable skellum with the least familiarity, and became passion-mad at the smallest provocation, particularly outside the restraints of civilized society, as the captain and she were now. She had seen too many instances among the British offiers and troops in just the last week to doubt it. At times, they could be as depraved as the French or Spanish, and mayhap Americans.
She could feel him towering over her. She hated the confusion she felt, not knowing whether the intimidation was intentional on his part or simply her own ramshackle nerves. She tightened her mouth at her cowardly responses, unsure of what he would do to her. And she couldn’t stop trembling. Her teeth ached from her efforts to control their chattering.
There was a heavy sigh above her. He pointed the knife at two rolls of tan material on the floor. “You can use that towel and the T-shirt. There are different kinds of pants and shirts as well as several blankets.” He paused for a moment to throw more wood on the fire. “Hopefully, everything will be dry by morning.” She didn’t say anything.
After an eternity of silence, he slowly set the knife down on the table next to her and picked up the candle. “I’m going to take care of the horses, General. Give me a holler when you’ve changed, or find you can’t.” He walked into the connecting stables, but before he opened the door, she called to him.
“Captain.” She spoke without looking at him.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t feed the horses grain until, until they’ve had a ch-chance to cool down.”
“A chance to cool down? Here?” A weary humor colored his words. He paused, seeming to wait for more advice, but when she remained silent, he took the candle, entered the stables, and shut the door behind him.
She watched the flames dance in the fire. Shivering, her numb fingers fumbled with the blanket in an effort to pull it tight around her. She felt she would never be warm again. When she heard him speak to the horses in the next room, she turned her head to look at the black blade on the table. Curious, she picked up the heavy gully and examined it. Along the top metal edge of the ebony handle, words were etched, Leiutenant R. Starke USASFC August 2000. Melissa stared at it for the longest time.
~ ~ ~
“Do you know what the hell’s going on?”
The huge gray studied Rig with a brown eye but had nothing to say. Too exhausted. He set the candle on a shelf. If this was a nightmare, he sure wanted to wake up now.
When using horses and mules in Afghanistan, Rig had been instructed to talk to the horses to calm them, to bond with them. Right. “She apologized for her ‘missish take’?” Rig shook his head. “Whatever than means.” No, he couldn’t have dreamed up that—or her. He needed to understand what the hell had happened today, why everything appeared so . . . Damn, there wasn’t a word to cover it.
Instead of explaining what the hell was going on, his one ally in the whole mess presented more maddening mysteries. The pain scrambled his thoughts. He was running on empty.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it would be all over when they reached Benavente, and contacted the Spanish authorities. Those Frenchmen had a lot to answer for.
He had to keep moving. With fumbling fingers, he unbuckled the bridles. Each horse wore simple rope halters underneath. Very practical. Leather straps held the horse blankets in place over the wooden saddles and pads. He untied them along with the cinches and pulled the saddles off the three horses. He couldn’t lift them, so he dragged them to one corner, even though he had no idea how he’d get them back on in the morning. The horses’ saddle covers had ended up covered with sweat and mud. The fancy material looked damp and grungy, even with the gold edging and embroidered crowned eagle in the corners.
He dried the horses with a cape he found in one of the cylindrical cases behind the saddles. Surprised, he discovered several wooden buckets stacked by the barn door and limped laboriously through the frigid air and mud several times to fill them from the fast-moving stream running on the far side of the trail. When he finished, he’d set one in front of each horse, with one more set aside for him and Mel.
As he worked, strange thoughts came and went. He knew it was shock, pain, and the cold. A memory from two weeks ago flitted across his consciousness: leaving the Ministerio de Defensa in Madrid with his liaison, Major Lurcia. It had been a warm, sunny day. They saw a cute brunette walk by, her skirt swishing hypnotically. Rig had decided to get her name and number when she gave him a flirty backward glance. The Major, smoothing down his mustache, observed, “She isn’t Spanish, whoever she is. Too obvious.” Unclear about what he meant, Rig had discovered she was English. He doubted he’d be seeing her anything soon.
He parceled out part of the now-wet green hay they’d carried all day into the stall troughs along with bleached-out hay from the loft. As he hadn’t heard anything from the other room, he used a currycomb and brush also carried in the saddle cases. He worked over each horse the way he’d been taught in Afghanistan.
“Damn.” Rig stared at a bullet hole in the bay’s rump, slowly seeping red. He couldn’t tell how deep the round had gone, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it—that the horse would hold still for, at any rate. The bay favored his hind leg, but otherwise didn’t seem to be in too much pain.
Worried, Rig checked over the other two. Both bore marks where shots had grazed them. He stepped back and watched them quietly eat.
“I’ve got to admit you boys were good soldiers today—even if I don’t much like your kind.”
None of the horses took exception to his opinion. They were too hungry.
He went back to caring for them, working to stay in what the Rangers called the ‘drone zone,’ where the pain, cold, and exhaustion could be ignored. Having gone through RASP, he knew If he stopped moving, his limbs would seize up.
Rig brushed the gray last, remembering how the horse held still while he had shot up the French horsemen, while being nicked by stray shots. They’d been a team. Imagine that.
“Well, Chief, what am I going to call you?” He smiled. “Yeah, Chief. I need a good warrant officer.” When the horse lowered his muzzle and nudged him in the chest, Rig chuckled. “What? Is that yes?” The beast said nothing. Rig returned to brushing the gray’s broad back. As he talked, the calm, rhythmic task soothed his battered psyche.
“Miss Graham talks like my grandmother and acts as prissy as a constipated nun.” Rig brushed harder. She was also smart, tough, and had the body of a centerfold. He scowled at that last thought, remembering that stretch of hers in the wet thermal shirt. He could still see her, as provocative as a co-ed on spring break. He grunted, feeling his pulse beat harder. Yet, when he noticed, she looked at him like he was a hormone-deranged tomcat.
Rig made a disgruntled snicking sound through his teeth, which made the gray look at him as he munched hay. It really didn’t matter whether he figured out Melissa Graham or not. He’d get her to a hospital, or her friends, and talk to the authorities. Then he’d get back to his life—or what fragments might be left.
He finished, having exhausted his ability to stand. He put the brushes away.
Rig picked up the saber and scabbard he’d untied from the gray’s saddle, and leaning against the wall, he studied the brass hilt, gold, blood-stained tassel, and the ivory and leather handle. Like his knife, there were French words etched across the top of the weapon. Antoine’s name, rank, Imperial Guard Chasseurs, and the date, December 1804.
Rig frowned. He set aside the saber, threw blankets from the saddle cases over the three horses for the night, and finished by parceling out some oats from bags tied to each saddle.
He’d brought the Ziplock baggie with his cell phone in it so he wouldn’t have Mel listening. As he expected, still no bars.
He knew the phone wouldn’t work, but why he knew, he didn’t want to consider. That scared the shit out of him on a whole new, intangible level. At least when someone tried to kill you, you knew why, what to be afraid of, knew what needed to be done about it. His instincts were ringing alarms, but the cause remained a confusion of impressions.
Mel called from the other room. He came to, aware he had been standing staring at his cellphone in a stupor for some time. Picking up the candle and bucket of water, he hobbled straight legged into the adjoining room, determined to get answers.
The fire had warmed the room, the contrast from next door made him feel that much colder. Rig set the candle on the table, bucket by the fire, and took off the heavy coat, the lower half still dripping water, even after he’d wrung it out. He hung it on a peg by the door while he examined Mel’s handiwork. She’d found twine and nails already in the walls and strung a line across one corner of the room. Her wet clothes were held by clothespins, twigs from the woodpile partially split with his knife.
She sat before the fire, her hair freed from the wet shirtsleeve. A blanket encircled her waist in skirt fashion. She wore the tan T-shirt and one of the French soldier’s linen shirts, the sleeves rolled up, the generous shirttails heaped around her.
Rig stopped and watched her. She stretched her good arm toward her feet in an effort to put on socks, but her bad shoulder wouldn’t let her. Back aches often accompanied shoulder dislocations. Out of breath, she sat back and held her arm, shaking. He could see her teeth chattering. She hadn’t covered herself with a blanket.
“Come on, show some sense.” He dragged the other chair closer to the fire. He could feel her tremble as he hauled her to her feet and backed her up to the chair. Her expression as she gazed at him was strange, like he had two heads or something, but he ignored it. He needed to get her warm.
“Sit.” Once she was in the chair, he wrapped the space blanket first, then the wool blanket around her. He slowly lowered himself down in front of her, back to the fire. With a groan, he positioned his stabbed leg straight out. “Your feet are frozen.”
~ ~ ~
Melissa watched as he started rubbing her insteps. Too cold and exhausted to move after changing her clothes and hanging up her makeshift clothesline, she said nothing. She should protest his untoward behavior and his failure to ask permission to touch her again.
Who—or what—was he? Her fears scattered about her head. She couldn’t seem to do anything but shiver uncontrollably, numb through and through. If she hadn’t felt the warmth of his hands, she could have believed he tended someone else while she looked on.
No one had ever rubbed her feet before. His large, warm hands kneading her arches seemed something absurd and fatuous. Her numb feet first burned, then ached, but his hands felt so soothing. She trembled more to realize how rarely she’d been touched in her life or cared for in any fashion. It had always been her tending others. Melissa had massaged both her sisters’ swollen feet when they were pregnant, and her father’s, when they had ached so the last year of his life. Had it felt like this for them?
The captain’s attentions made her so alive to her body, the space it inhabited. She sat shivering, lost in the unique impressions. Even though needles of pain made her feet twitch as he coaxed the blood back into them, she didn’t want him to stop. Too soon, she was disappointed. He took his hands away and carefully covered her feet with dry socks, his jaw muscles bunching while he worked.
But then he extended his massage to her calves, his strong fingers gently working the cold and cramping stiffness out of them. She sighed as her lower legs grew warmer and muscles released their cramps. She’d walked and run and rode so far today. Her body began to feel hot, then cold in waves surging through her. She closed her eyes against the agitated sensations.
As she leaned back in her chair, she started to feel every sore inch of her body. Would he extend his attentions? She was still cold and ached where he had yet to massage her. She could imagine his hands moving up her limbs, kneading the chill and soreness from her thighs.
As his fingers touched her knees, she caught the unsettling odors of the French Army blanket around her. Abruptly, a trickle of alarm seeped in on her reverie.
Her eyes flew open, and she pulled her legs away from his hands. “Captain, thank ye.” She’d stopped shaking.
He looked up from where he was sitting at her feet, his blinking expression that of someone having a daydream interrupted. The word ‘endearing’ flitted through her mind, and it confused her all the more. She glanced at his knife. He represented something baffling, and utterly alien.
She held her breath as he studied her. His features grew taut, his eyes remote. “You’re welcome, Miss Graham.”
Was he angry because she cut short his diversion? She drew the blankets tighter around her shoulders, unhappy with herself. She was still being unfair, she knew. Men used anger and stoicism to hide their own fears, pain, and embarrassment.
He must be so bewildered and afraid, lost in a foreign world, much like she’d felt to have left England for the first time last year with her uncle and the army. Landing in Sweden, Melissa found an odd society ruled by a hostile king before the army followed Moore to Spain.
Even so, Captain Starke demonstrated an ungentlemanly lack of respect for her person. Yet, he’d faced death for her without complaint, and indeed, had overcome fearsome odds. She chided herself. He’d displayed a curiously impertinent consideration for her welfare all the same.
She did not know what to believe, what should be said, could be said. Thinking on the words etched in his black dirk, she frowned at him. What would he believe?