Chapter 7
Murphy’s Laws of Combat #28:
“Whatever doesn’t kill you, leaves you to improvise and dare death again.”
Rig was shaking with cold, dog-tired, and hurt like hell. In his frustration with Mel’s stuck-up wariness, he stood too quickly. His stiff, punctured leg buckled under him, and he fell hard on his knees. Pain bounced around in his body like white-hot pin balls, making his eyes tear. His leg was open and bleeding again, he could feel it. Mel immediately knelt to help him, but he waved her away.
Breathing hard, he gritted his teeth and sat down, mortified by his clumsiness. After a moment, he scooted closer to the fire in a sitting position, proud that he’d at least avoided swearing in her presence.
Concern furrowed her brow as she silently watched him. Great, that’s all I need. Pity. He untied one boot but couldn’t reach the one on his wounded leg. She unlaced it for him, removing the boot and his socks.’
She sat back on her heels, her face composed. “What more can I do?”
Rig stopped to look at her. Her voice held a resonant quality he hadn’t heard before. Images of Highland granite and warm molasses floated in intriguing combinations through his fevered mind. This certainly was not the prissy Miss Graham of seconds ago.
In the dancing light of the fire, he could see she’d used a long twig to hold her tresses in a knot behind her head. There was still more than enough hair left for a ponytail, which lay over one shoulder, a gold-bronze waterfall, shining in the firelight. She brushed stray strands out of her eyes and waited for his answer. Shadows and light playing across her quiet face, her eyes bright and ageless. In the glow of the flames, her bandage sat like a gold crown around her head. The moment and the woman kneeling before him tugged at his soul, inexplicable, an alluring spirit. In that instant, he wished he knew who she was, what she was.
His leg spasmed. He blinked back more moisture from his eyes, and the moment was gone. Embarrassed, he glared into the fire, unhappy with his lapse into what? Ah, hell, I’m hallucinating.
With a gruff wave of his hand, he said, “Get the medical kit and the metal mess kit in the left side of my pack. There’s water in the bucket. We need to boil a pot of it.” Breathing hard, he’d pushed his boots and socks aside when Mel returned with the bucket. She set it by him.
The agony burning through his leg made him sweat, but he caught her eye. “Thank you.” With a considered nod, she turned back to his pack.
He undid his utility harness, vest, belt, and holster, and then pulled off his wet pants. He was shaking now—delayed shock as much as the cold. The bandages were a bloody mess. With awkward fingers, he unbuttoned his shirt and shook it out. He was in the process of pulling off his T-shirt when Mel turned around with the medical pack and mess kit.
She stared for a moment, then turned away, her back to him.
He pulled up his T-shirt but found he couldn’t get it over his head. Dried blood had adhered the cloth to his back where he’d been caught by the stirrup. Every tug felt like sharp pincers tearing at his flesh. He swore under his breath.
“What are ye doing?”
He stopped pulling and between gasps, answered her question. “I’m getting out of these wet clothes, and I can’t get this T-shirt off.”
She turned and without looking at him set the medical kit by him. Facing the fire on her knees, she began taking the mess kit apart.
“Mel?” God, he hurt. “Miss Graham?” He could feel his whole body cramping, nerves jangling in response to the pain. He shouldn’t have waited this long to get into dry clothes and do a proper job on his leg.
“Yes, Captain.” She seemed to say it to the mess kit as she removed the little pot and set it aside.
“I need your help here.” He ground the words out between his teeth, feeling like a fool in his boxers, shivering with his T-shirt bunched around his head, one arm in and one arm out.
She nodded and then turned to him, her green-gray eyes serious. “Aye, I know.”
~ ~ ~
Melissa tried to concentrate on the captain’s request, but the sight of his near-naked, brown body before her kept stealing her attention. From the pale skin at the waistline of his drawers, he spent considerable time outdoors in such a state of undress. The outlandish image made her imagination run wild.
He was so long and muscular, so big. In tending wounded soldiers, she had seen many undressed, but they were pale and puny things compared to this man. His form glowed in the firelight. Oh, glory, what a pleasure to behold.
The captain spoke, breaking in on her reverie. “My shirt’s stuck to me.”
She looked at him blankly. “Pardon?”
“Help. Now.”
Shamed to be caught staring at him, she did as he instructed without comment. She hung the pot of water over the fire on the iron crane set in the stone, then knelt behind him to see about his ‘T-shirt.’
It proved to be stuck just as he said, the bloody scab holding the cloth fast. So, near the wide breadth of him, she felt undone by his ‘otherness,’ and consequently, was unsure what to do.
Melissa clenched her teeth, annoyed with her girlish weakness. As she often did when feeling hen-hearted, she acted decisively. She took hold of the soft material and yanked it away.
“Holy shit!” He glared over his shoulder at her, but she spoiled the effect by pulling the shirt over his head. He hit the floor with his fist. “Where’d you learn your nursing skills, auto shop?” When she glared back at him, rather than show her fear of his impressive ire, he growled low, “You could have softened it with the warm water first.”
“Ye dighty mon, that would hae been a long, lingering pain.” Melissa ignored his ill-temper. She was occupied, using the shirt to stem the bleeding. When finished, she winced at the sight, a ragged hole gouged in his flesh. The whole area around it was blotched red and purple.
She laid one hand on his bare shoulder to get a better look and saw other, older scars across his back. Under her fingers, his warm skin felt smooth. Supple muscles flexed and their solid strength tugged at her senses, while the marring of such perfection outraged her sensibilities.
“Ochone, me puir, bonnie mon,” she whispered.
“What?”
Melissa started. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken. “Tis a muckle great gouge, bigger than a shilling.”
Through gritted teeth, the captain had her clean it with an ‘antiseptic wipe’ and cover it with a sticky gauze bandage. “Okay, the water’s boiling.”
“You want tea now?”
“No. Just set it down near me.” She took the pot on the iron crane, using her skirt to hold the pot. She carefully removed the tape and bandages from his thigh, taking her time. The bandages, too, were stuck to his thigh. Tearing a strip from the bottom of her petticoat with her teeth and one hand, she knelt to clean the wound in his leg.
“Put the cloth in the boiling water.”
“Whatever for?”
“Bacteria.”
“Make sense, mon.”
“Germs.”
He didn’t strike her as superstitious, but he was from elsewhere. The year 2000? So, what did she ken? His fear of ‘germs,’ small seeds or garden sprites, did make him seem more human. With a shake of her head, she poked the cloth down in the steaming pot with a stick.
Studying his now bare leg in the firelight, she wanted to cry at the sight of bloody, bruised, and torn flesh as she used two sticks to wring out the boiled cloth. With one hand, she took hold of the top of his thigh. He tensed. “Och, man, I widnae hurt ye.”
“Says the torture queen.”
Her lips thinned at his retort and felt along his thigh for the ends of the wound hidden by the gore. He jerked as she roughly wiped off the dried blood, exposing a three-inch tear.
“Ye shoogly nickum. Will ye no hold amiss?”
In a hoarse whisper, he said, “Speak English.”
She glanced up at his tone, but the fire-lit intensity in his dark eyes wasn’t anger. His expression ignited a confused flutter in her middle that dissolved any retort. “If you insist. Hold still.” Speaking Sassenach English required so much effort. She had no notion what such a man might be thinking, but like many Englishers, he took exception to her Braid Scots.
Even though she tried a kitten’s lick of a touch, his wound must have been hurting something fierce, for he sat rigid, eyes squeezed tight by the time she was done cleaning out the breadcrumbs.
The captain’s arm propping him up in a sitting position shook with fatigue. He said through gritted teeth, “Well, General, can you stitch a wound?”
“Aye.”
“In the corner pocket of the kit, you will find a curved needle and a roll of thread.”
“Aye, I see them.” With his ‘medical kit’ rolled out across the floor, there were pockets for dozens of implements, bottles, and large packs of bandages, labeled and ready to use. All in all, it proved a very impressive, and mysterious, physician’s satchel. She found and threaded the crescent-shaped needle.
“Are ye a surgeon or apothecary?”
He shook his head.
“With this tackle?”
He ignored her question with a curt glance. “That green tube. Squeeze the gel in and around the cuts. Make each stitch about a third of an inch deep every quarter to half inch.”
She glanced at him with narrowed eyes, misliking his superior tone, and leaned over his bare thigh with the needle. “I’ve had some small practice at this, Captain, and I can be easy, or I can be hard. Which do you fancy?”
The captain blinked, then surprised her with a chuckle. “I think ‘easy,’ Miss Graham.”
“Do you have another vial of the pain killers you gave me?”
“I have one more, but I’d rather save it for you. I took pills. Do you need something for the pain?”
She started. “Pills? Opium or willow bark?” She prayed it wasn’t opium. Even if laudanum, it could be a problem, delirium in his condition.
“Vicodin.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Melissa concentrated on sewing together the torn flesh of the entry wound atop his thigh. She could feel his body grow taut again as she worked. It was made difficult one-handed. Her left arm was nearly useless.
“Why do you keep flipping back and forth between that Scots dialect and regular English?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
She paused. “‘Regular English,’ did ye say?” She shook her head. “What possible import can it have on the moment?”
“I’m curious and need a distraction. Why?” His face was drawn and pale, but intent on her answer.
Melissa straightened her back, her shoulder muscles protesting with sharp twinges, but she raised an eyebrow after a moment. “If I tell ye, will ye then cease your chirping and let me finish?” He nodded. A small smile appeared, which belied the pain in his eyes.
She sighed. “I’m a Scots woman, born and bred in Balgowan along the banks of the Firth of Tay near Dùn Dèagh, but I am also the daughter of a gentleman and the granddaughter of an English noblewoman—Lady Christina Hope, herself the fourth daughter of the Earl of Hopedoun. My own minnie died giving birth to me tittie, so me grandmother took the part.”
“Your tittie?!” His smile widened.
“My sister. Don’t interrupt.” She continued stitching, needle through flesh and pulled tight. “I was raised speaking Oor ain leid, but grandmother felt I should master ‘proper English,’ as you called it.” She wiped away blood. “At fifteen, I was sent to Mrs. Thornhill’s Finishing School for Young Ladies in London to prepare me for my Season.”
“How long were you there?”
Melissa paused and furrowed her brow at the new question, recalling the endless torment. “Eighteen months.”
“Was it difficult learning ‘proper’ English?”
She eyed him and his solicitous phrasing as she returned to stitching. Did he guess her isolation, her loneliness there? “The Sassenach were difficult, always are, but less so if you speak their tongue.”
“A ‘Sassenach’ like me?”
“Aye. You’re not English, thank the fates, but a foreigner all the same.”
The captain frowned at that, but persevered. “Prepare for a ‘Season?’ Your family must be wealthy to send you to a finishing school and then put on a coming-out party for you.”
Coming-out party, indeed. “Captain.”
“What?”
“Hush.”
He chuckled, but made no more sounds, except to grunt when she asked him to roll over so she could stitch the exit wound on the back of his thigh. As she moved over to his other side, he reached over and threw more wood on the fire. With a wince and grunt, he turned over onto his stomach.
Melissa detested sewing up a person like a torn petticoat. No matter how often she was called upon to do it, the task still caused a queasy knot in her stomach. The wounded troopers she tended were the worst, casualties of the cavalry fights around Sahagun a fortnight ago, sabers slicing them like dinner hams.
Her throat tightened at the memory as she stitched, suddenly wishing the captain would ask more questions as tears threatened. She could only imagine how this must trouble him, would trouble him for a long time, perhaps a lifetime. Melissa was sorry for it.
She finished and sat back, expelling a shaky breath, her shoulder now an agony. Sapped of energy, she fought to concentrate on the next tasks at hand, the emotions of the day threatening to overwhelm her.
The firelight wavered across his legs and naked back, accenting the planes and valleys there, the broad wings of muscle narrowing at his waist. His form could match any Greek statue she’d ever viewed. His thin drawers stretched tight across his backside. Melissa closed her eyes. “I have finished.”
She heard him turn over slowly and opened her eyes again when he said, “Very nice,” with a curt nod at her stitches. He quickly fixed a gauze bandage around his thigh with his marvelous sticky tape, cutting out clean parts of his bloody T-shirt to cover the bandage.
Reaching behind him, the captain grabbed his last clean ‘T-shirt’ from his pack and struggled to pull it over his head. She finally knelt close and helped him shrug it on.
Afterward, as he buttoned his dirt-stained shirt over it, Melissa continued to gaze silently at his profile lit by the firelight, weighing the character she could see there, searching for the signs of humanity.
A strong jaw and a nose whose flat bridge suggested it had been broken in the past gave him a severe mien, only softened by a well-shaped mouth ready to laugh. An old scar ran along his brow, and she saw a cut unnoticed until now. She remembered the ‘antiseptic wipe’ she’d used on his back and retrieved one from his medical pouch. She sat next to him and began to clean a cut on his cheek.
He pulled away and ran his finger along the small furrow. “I remember when this happened, but I’d completely forgotten about it—grazed by a bullet.”
She nodded, and though she felt tears running down her own cheeks, she finished wiping away the blood. She hated how war tore at men, how it had already marred this beautiful man. Regret burned in her chest for what he’d suffered because of her—and would continue to suffer on their trek—carrying the scars through no fault of his own.
As she finished, their eyes met. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re crying.”
Would a man understand? This man? Melissa wiped her face with a shirt sleeve. “Aye, what of it? They’re just a woman’s tears, and of no import.”
The captain blinked at that, frowning at her as she began to clean up, repacking the medical pouch.
“What do you mean, ‘it’s of no import?’”
She glanced up at him but didn’t trust his odd interest. “A woman cries o’r the world’s injustice and pain,” she said, shrugging with her good shoulder. “Men, they rage and swear.” Pausing, she gave him a steady look. “What do either amend?”
She turned away from his perplexed gaze. She tested to see which clothes on the line were dry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pull another syringe out of his medical kit and stick himself with it in the thigh.
She grimaced. “What is that if no ‘pain killers?’”
“Antibiotics.” He must have seen her lack of comprehension because he added, “It fights infection like one of the shots I gave you.” She could only nod.
Still sitting, he tugged on a pair of white canvas overalls gleaned from the French packs. They fit his narrow waist, but were far too short, stopping mid-calf like a sailor’s breeches. With the help of the chair, he stood up and tested his leg a bit.
“You do good work, Mel.” His smile made her forgive his continued use of the too familiar Mel. She felt herself blushing and looked away.
After a moment, he said with forced cheerfulness, “Let’s eat.”
Melissa turned and watched him remove two brown, wax-paper bags from his pack along with metal dishes. She was continually surprised by what he drew out of his huge pack. Without speaking, he helped her into her sling without too much pain.
She went to boil more water for tea or coffee, whichever she found in the soldiers’ rucksacks. As if he read her mind, he waved her off. “I’ve got this. Coffee and dinner.”
He set a metal plate in front of her, but no plate for himself. The captain set the two brown bags on the table, each the size of a large tobacco pouch with MRE printed large on the sides. He poured their contents out on the table, several smaller brown bags, and pouches. They had incomprehensible words like ‘Craisins’ and ‘Energy Bars’ as well as ‘Crackers and Cheese Spread,’ but also ‘Beef Stew.’ Amazing, clear bags, like glass, held brown spoons and forks. He did strange things with the bags, pouring a small amount of water from his pack tube in two of the amazing clear bags with writing on them, then slipping the ‘Beef Stew’ pouches into them.
What was he doing? He stuffed the two pouches in the clear bags back in the boxes and leaned them up against a table leg. He poured more water into a small metal pot. Melissa was not at all certain she knew what he was about. “May I help?”
“Nope. We’re about ready.” With a little metal tube, he flicked it with his thumb and a flame appeared. He lit a pebble sitting in a metal dish with holes in the sides, which immediately burned with a steady flame, and then set the pot on it.
He poured in the dark contents of one package with ‘Instant Coffee’ printed across it. Was ‘Instant’ an American company? She was acquainted with Anthony Sudden Coffee, so it was a family name? He motioned for her to sit down and tore the spoon from the clear bag. “Do you want a fork, or will the spoon do?” He ripped a spoon free from its clear bag and handed it to her.
“For what?”
“Beef Stew.”
She frowned at his playacting. Standing with her hand on the chairback, she picked the spoon, marveling at how smooth it was. It was brown, but it wasn’t wood, but it wasn’t painted metal either. “What is this made of?”
“Plastic.”
She pursed her lips at the meaningless answer and held up the clear bag he’d torn open. “And this marvel?”
“Plastic.” She scowled at him and his futuristic words.
“Miss Graham, we are having beef stew with cherry cobbler for dessert.” He pointed to the bags.
The scene before her was barely comprehensible. “Captain, it’s fell late in the day, and I’m too dreary and hungry for ye to gammon me in such a pokey fashion.”
He looked at her askance. “Uh, no, really. MRE stands for Meals Ready to Eat. Have a seat.”
She took a deep breath, exhaling any impatient words she might have spoken through her teeth, and sat.
He gingerly took the chair across from her and handed her a cup. He opened a collapsible metal cup for himself, an accordion construction she had seen other officers carry.
From the boxes leaning on the table leg, he grabbed the clear bags and removed the brown pouches from them, kneeding them. He tore off the top of one pouch and poured the steaming contents into her bowl. “What pliskie is this?”
“It’s stew.” Tearing open the top of his pouch, he retrieved his spoon and scooped out what looked gravy and meat. The smell made her stomach knot. Melissa eyed the bowl. It looked and smelled like a thick stew. Potatoes and carrots showed white and orange among the chunks of meat in a rich brown gravy.
“MREs are pretty bland. It will need salt and pepper.” He poured coffee into her cup and handed her several little packets. “This is sugar, cream for the coffee, and salt and pepper for the stew.” The contents were printed on the outside, but she waited until he had torn his open before doing the same with hers.
The cream was a white powder, but it mixed easily in the coffee. Proving a trifle thin, it tasted sweet, hot, and wonderful. She tested the stew, which was good once she added the seasonings.
She was so hungry it was difficult not to wolf it down. He laid a piece of white paper by her plate. A serviette? When was the last time she’d had the opportunity to use one on this campaign? Was he making a comment on her manners?
She looked up at the captain, who watched her intently. Memories of Mrs. Thornhill’s lessons on deportment nagging at her, she laid the white paper in her lap. “Thank ye.” For the rest of the meal, she ate slower. Like the stew, the cherry cobbler bag was heated the very same way, and the contents tasted heavenly.
Melissa finished, wiping her mouth with the soft paper. Glancing at the knife still sitting on the edge of the table and the remains of the extraordinary meal in front of her, she decided to wait no longer. How should she broach the subject?
She waved a hand at the remains of the many brown bags. “Is this all scientific artifice or malversation?” His only response was a questioning rise of his eyebrows. She tried again. “How did you come by it?”
He studied her with a dubious expression for a moment and then pointed his spoon at her plate. “They’re just military rations. I admit I scavenged several before shipping, just packing what I wanted to take to Spain. I put together six dinners and light lunches for the exercises with . . .” He looked at the fire for a moment. “So we each have two more. Are you done?”
She blinked at his terse question but nodded. He stacked her dishes and limped near to the hearth, setting them down. He collected the empty food bags and tossed them in the fire. She gasped. “Captain, what are you doing?”
“Cleaning up.”
“But—But those bags, won’t they heat again?”
“No.” He gave her a perplexed look, pain and fatigue etching his face. Rummaging around in his pack, he retrieved an oblong bag, and from the middle, tugged out what looked like small, wet towels. He sat and proceeded to wipe the dishes clean, throwing the used towels in the fire. Wonders! Cleaning dishes, and him a man. It proved very hard to contemplate moving now that she was full, the warm food soothing, but she rose to help him. “What are those cleaning cloths?”
He held up the package. Big red letters on it spelled ‘Huggies.’ When he saw she still didn’t understand, he said, “Sit. Relax and finish your coffee.” He held up the dirty towel before flinging it in the fire. “They’re baby wipes, of course.”
She sipped her second cup, unsure what to do or say, much less think as she watched him. The captain finished and rising awkwardly repacked what he called his ‘rucksack.’ He then set two white and two round red pills in front of her. “Take those. They will help with the pain tonight.”
“Veyk-o-din?”
He nodded. “And Ibuprofen.” She did as he asked with the last of her coffee.
The captain took her now-empty cup and wiped it, setting it with the other dishes on the table. He thought for a moment and limbed to the door, opening it. He stood in the doorway gazing out into the night while frigid air blew in.
“It’s snowing.” He took a deep breath. “That’s good, and not so good.” He pulled something out of a shirt pocket that rustled, then stepped outside. After a moment he shut the door, re-stuffed the doorjamb with a rag, and limped to her. In his hand were two more small bags, clear like fine glass, filled with snow. He handed her one of the strange bags and she stared at it. It felt like a pillow, flexible in her hand. What amazing material.
“Put that on your temple and shoulder. It will help reduce the pain and swelling.” She did as instructed. It did dull the pain in her head, but she could only do it for a few moments, as it made her shiver. So she set it on her shoulder for a while before placing it on her head again.
Without waiting to see if she had complied, he went into the next room. When he came back, he left the door open, and threw more wood on the fire, for the horses she supposed. He sat and stared into the flames, the other bag of snow on his thigh, fatigue in every motion.
“Captain?”
He turned his head and waited. She cleared her throat, nervously squeezing at the snow-filled bag in her hand. “About your black dirk.”
“Look, keep it if that’ll make you feel safer.”
“Nae. I’ve nae need of it. I speak of the writing on the hilt. What does it signify?”
He gazed at the knife for a moment, his expression unreadable. “That knife was the first personal equipment I bought when I made it into the Rangers.” A sad smile formed on his lips. “It was my way of commemorating it.”
“And August 2000. Is—Is that a date?”
He scowled. “What else would it be?”
She squeezed the bag until the cold made her hand ache. “Do Americans calculate the years and months differently than the English, after the fashion of the Revolutionary French and Russians?”
He shot her an odd look and rubbed his face. “No.”
Her lips thinned with her frown. He was from a distant time to come—one hundred and ninety years after this present age? It couldn’t be, could it?
He sat back, rubbing his thigh, staring off into space. “I joined the 75th Rangers and Special Forces Operations ten years ago.” The candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, his eyes hard points of light. “Is that a problem?”
“Captain, when where you born?” Her voice quivered.
“Oh, now you want to do a background check?” He chuckled, sounding as though that was an effort. She shook her head, confused by his words, but he went on anyway. “What if I show you my driver’s license?”
He reached around, grunting with the exertion and pulled another clear bag from a side pocket on his pack, removing a black wallet from which he produced a card-like square. He laid it on the table in front of her.
She picked up the stiff card and stared. On it a small, but extremely lifelike face looked out. No miniature painting. It was the captain’s very face, staring back at her. She dropped it and shot out of her chair, backing up against the hearth, afraid the little head would start speaking. After a moment of silence, she put her hand to her forehead, embarrassed by her foolishness. “Eejit,” she hissed to herself.
She leaned against the hearthstones, clasping her injured shoulder. In a tight voice, louder than intended, she asked again, “Just tell me, when were you born?”