Saving Time

Chapter 11

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #7:

“Try to look unimportant; the enemy may be low on ammo, and not want to waste a bullet on you.”

“What are you doing here, girl?”

The older soldier’s Spanish was awful, but Melissa understood him. The three stopped at the head of her roan and examined her with hard eyes. Her knees shook under her skirts, making her horse restive. The closest man grabbed its bridle. A swarthy, mean-looking scoundrel, he taunted her with an insolent half-smile.

Melissa held the pistol tight, arm stiff. She could feel the sweat collecting on her forehead and upper lip, already cold, as she tried to hold the pistol steady. She gazed without expression at the French soldier who held her horse, deciding she would shoot him first. She was a wounded animal facing a pack of wolves.

“Buenos días, muchachos.”

Melissa started at the sound of the masculine voice. She nearly pulled the trigger. All of them looked up at the source of the jovial greeting. Captain Starke gazed down from the wall, a wide grin visible, his face shadowed against the gray sky. He began a rapid dialogue with the soldiers in Spanish and French, so fast that Melissa couldn’t follow it.

The captain slowly climbed down the ladder, talking cheerfully over his shoulder in Spanish and broken French, and didn’t stop until he sat again on the gray. He turned his horse to face the three soldiers, who now had forgotten Melissa.

They stared at his canvas boots showing below the gray overalls, then the dried blood. He gestured to the blood on his pants, to the wall, south down the slope, and then to her. The three soldiers glanced at her with bemused expressions and then smiled at the captain, grinning at his explanations, as he chatted in brisk fashion. She hardly recognized him, his manners so open and jovial.

She heard him use a French phrase ‘chiens hargneux anglais’ at one point, calling the English wild dogs, which elicited grins from the Frenchmen. One soldier pointed to the imperial eagles on the saddle blankets and she tensed.

With a wave of a hand, the captain gave a long description that included the French words ‘Napoleon’s Children’ and ‘the English.’ All three soldiers laughed.

Captain Starke then flipped the long coat away from his waist and pulled out a coin purse, but in doing so, he revealed the flintlock pistol stuck in his belt. The soldiers’ demeanor changed. Their smiles froze, but their eyes stayed on the purse. The captain waved the purse around as he asked questions, pointing west and south. The soldiers now were eager to give him information, providing a long explanation while the captain listened.

He tossed the purse to the older soldier as he thanked them with a ‘gracias,’ and then glancing at her, gruffly said, “Vámonos.” The Frenchmen stood aside and let them pass, their hot eyes on her the entire time.

The captain led her south, down the slope, and into the olive grove. Melissa didn’t dare look back, for fear of seeing the French following. She remained too shaken, and too relieved to say anything for a long time. When she did call to the captain, he impatiently waved her to silence. The narrow trail and the pack horse between them made it impossible to come close enough to talk quietly. She glared at his back.

Blast the shaunny mon. What was the matter with him? The trail headed uphill toward the west. Several minutes passed before they entered a small grove, and he turned his horse back. Stopping beside her, he held out his hand.

Disturbed by his intense expression, Melissa didn’t react at first, unsure of what he wanted. He seemed to have grown, his countenance cold steel. Frightened by the change, she just stared at him, and the large, gloved hand opened before her.

“My weapon.”

She flinched. He was angry with her. She handed him the black thing. He eased the hammer closed and flipped the safety. With a glance at her, he opened his coat and slipped it into its holster. He then pulled the flintlock out of his belt and held it out to her. He watched her with the most intimidating expression she’d ever seen on a man, even her uncle. She hesitated for a moment, afraid of what he might do, but finally took the flintlock and placed it in in the holster in the front of her saddle.

“Captain, what did ye say to—”

“Later.”

Mouth open, she froze at his severe tone. He eyed her for a moment and then turned away, pointing his gray up the trail. He pulled the bay after him, leaving Melissa to follow.

The narrow path wound its way along the hillside above the Rio órbigo as it tumbled down into the Elsar River below. They walked single file for the next few hours, the twisted limbs of passing trees oppressive. Melissa imagined they were tortured souls, beseeching the hoary, unfeeling heavens.

At last, they walked up a slope and out into the open. The clouds roiled above, an icy wind pulling at her clothes. The captain stopped, glanced at the sky, and then set his floppy-brimmed hat on his head over his wool cap. He unpacked a green-gray tarpaulin of the same material as her poncho, and covered the packs, tying it down with the oddest stretchy black cords with hooks at each end. She moved up to get a closer look. The captain ignored her and finished securing the cover from horseback. Just then, it began to rain. Small drops spat loudly on the hood of her poncho.

“It’s been at least two hours, Captain. We should rest the horses. They will—”

Without looking at her, he growled, “Later.” He moved off up the slope with the pack horse in tow and stopped fifty yards away. Standing up in the saddle, he surveyed the hills to the north over the crest of the slope.

Anger bubbled up at his rude behavior and she kicked her horse to a trot harder than necessary. She yelled over the blowing wind and rain as she came up beside him, “Captain!”

He whipped around. “Shut up!” The harsh whisper was a physical blow. He turned to face north again.

Melissa sat stunned, but her eyes followed his gaze over the rise.

Barely visible in the rain-soaked gloom, a dark, twisting coil of moving figures could be seen undulating across a slope two hundred yards away. Too indistinct to tell whether they were French or not, a long column or small. Melissa would not wager a Portuguese dollar on it being British.

Her relief when the captain rescued her at the wall, followed by hours of his cutting treatment, her shoulder pain, and the wearisome ride finally undid her. Hating her weakness, the knots in her stomach, she felt tears come just as it began to rain in earnest. The windblown drops stung her face, but at least the captain wouldn’t ken she was crying. She would not have him see her face begrutten. Through the gray rain, she gazed off at nothing.

The captain moved out, ever west, never pausing, not when the rain turned to knifing sleet, blown by the northern wind. The freezing wet worked its way under her clothes, leaving her drookit, but he didn’t stop.

Nothing was visible. The falling sheets of ice water turned the world a dull ash color. Finally, the captain stopped and turned, motioning for her to stay. He walked the gray up the slope and looked over, studying the other side. After what seemed an eternity, he returned without a word, and picked up the bay’s reins again. Down the trail he headed. Melissa bared her teeth at his chilly indifference, irritation heating her, but she put a heel to her horse and followed.

Over the hill, a squat farmhouse and stone barn came into view. They headed toward it, the captain intently examining it the entire time. He stopped before the rough-hewn porch and shouted. An old man came out brandishing a sword. White hair blowing in the wind, he listened with a furrowed brow to the captain’s rapid Spanish and then nodded. The captain offered some coins from another purse.

The old man waved toward the barn, a small, crude thing built of granite stones. The wood roof leaked in several places, but they rode in and found a dry area covered in hay next to a stepped ‘lowpin-on-stane.’ She was able to dismount, but her legs were so stiff and cold, it was difficult to stay upright. She had to grip a stall gate sheltering two cows to remain standing while she stretched feeling into her limbs.

Aching, she watched the captain work, unsure of what help she could offer, or what he might accept. He led the horses over to a mound of hay and slipped their bridles off to let them eat. He had also packed a bucket from their first shelter, which he now took outside to a rain barrel and brought water back to the horse trough.

He limped to the front doors, back straight, and closed them, sliding a wood bar across them. In the rear of the barn there was a small door, which he opened and looked out. After a moment, he closed it and wedged it shut with another plank. No one would be entering easily.

It was well past noon by now, and she could feel the pain in her shoulder and head returning. Her limbs were cold lead and her stomach growled in earnest. As though he’d heard, he removed more brown bags. Then slowly, with his leg held stiff before him, he sat on a bench by one stall.

There was just enough room remaining on the bench for her to sit. Instead, she stood before him. “Can ye talk now?” He didn’t respond, even with the edge to her voice, but instead pulled out more brown bags. “What did ye say to those French devils that they let us leave?” He looked up at her, his dark eyes unreadable. Stung by his silence, she leaned in with a scowl to ask the most important question. “Have you accepted you’ve journeyed in time?”

He nodded but said nothing more.

Melissa waved her free hand. “What convinced ye, when I and tens of thousands of French devils could not?” He began removing the contents of the bags. His continued silence was lashing her mad.

~ ~ ~

Rig studied her, anger, frustration, and throbbing pain warring in him but he looked away before he lost it. For hours, he’d kept a vise-tight control on his rage and bitter resentment as he came to realize more and more the desperate situation he’d been thrown into—what he’d lost—and why. This woman and her grandmother were the cause. The word ‘used’ didn’t begin to describe his situation.

After opening the small bags, crackers and cheese paste and meat sticks, he turned back to her and said in a deadly quiet voice, “How do you send me back to my time?”

He watched her reactions to his question, calling up his leadership experience and training in interrogation to tell him what he wanted to know. Women wanted, needed men to help them, and used any means at their disposal to get their aid but only when it was convenient, starting with his mother. Now it was a weird magic and a temporal kidnapping. But were women satisfied with the help once they got it? Not in his experience. Was Mel willing to say thank you and let him go back to his world?

“I cannae tell. Me uald— My nana is the one who told me of the spell on the pendant.” She didn’t look at him, twisting the damp material of her skirt with her free hand.

An easy read. “You know more than that.”

Mel’s brow knotted, but she said nothing.

He could feel the muscles in his neck go rigid. “I have a right to know.”

She sighed and gave a shaky nod. “Aye, ye do.”

“Damned straight I do.” He jerked upright and hobbled away. Then he turned and glared at her. “You and your grandma stole my life—my world.” He waved a hand at the surroundings.

Mel straightened and glared back. “Don’t ye be blaming me for this. I had no hand in it, no inkling of the pendant’s power.” She eyed him up and down. “Nor what it would call up. The French minker with the knife tore it from me. I dinnae ask ye here.”

“So you say, but you’re quite happy to have me in harm’s way all the same,” he said, pushing the sarcasm. He cocked his head and watched her slump on the bench seat, staring at the ground, her mouth tight.

“Aye, very glad of your help, certainly,” she said. “You saved my life, for which I am most grateful.” She eyed him with a frown. “But if ye want me to regret your presence, ye have chosen the proper course.”

He gritted his teeth. “All right then, let’s make us both happy. How do I get home?”

She looked at him, her expressive eyebrows rising up over her nose, like ships sinking, bows high, stern first, low at the corners of her eyes. She began to rub her shoulder anxiously. “I dinnae pay any mind to Nana’s words. The day I left with my uncle, she laid the pendant around my neck, and told me to take it off only if I were in need.” A frown furrowed her brow, but she didn’t say anything more.

“So what happens if you put it back on now?”

“I donna ken. Perhaps ye disappear like you appeared, like some willow wisp.”

“Put it on.”

She stared at him in shock. “Ye would leave me here, alone?”

“You bet. If what you told me is true, and I certainly believe it now, when you are again in trouble, all you have to do is take off that jewelry, and presto, help arrives.” She gave him an incredulous wide-eyed look, her mouth thinning to a line. “Right?”

When she didn’t speak, he said, “You have some idea what will happen if you put it back on. Am I wrong to think if you need help again, that thing will come to your rescue again?”

“I don’t know!” If looks could kill, he’d have been ready for a body bag. Rig glared back at her, refusing to be manipulated. She gripped the bench and bared her teeth in frustration. “I certainly didn’t go wandering among the French, thinking I was safe because of the amulet.”

“So why did you leave the safety of the army and your uncle?”

She closed her eyes. “I told you. Two nights ago, my friend Emily Hershey, along with a dozen women of the Army, were kidnapped by French cavalry during a supply raid. Yesterday, they were released and returned to our lines, all but three, including Emily. I went to find her, thinking she and the other two had lost their way or were hurt.”

“So, kidnapping women is bad, but kidnapping men from the future whenever the need arises is the height of gentility?”

“You don’t know what the devils did to Emily!” she shouted.

In response, he leaned in close, making her eyes go wide. “No, I don’t. I only know what’s been done to me and what I kept from happening to you. And now, I want to go home. You are the one with the rescue jewelry, not me.”

She glared at him, certainly antipathy and stinging guilt contorting her bruised face in equal parts. “You, sirrah, may be an officer, but you are no gentleman.”

“I wondered when that would come up.” Rig raised an eyebrow. Of course, her judgment was delivered in a snooty British accent. “I’ve been dumped in the middle of a war. The country is disease-ridden and any medical help primitive.”

“Primitive? How can you say that?”

He glared at her. “There’s little food and no sanitation. Behind enemy lines, it’s the dead of winter, and to top it off, I’m expected to be nice—to be a ‘gentleman’ about getting highjacked.” He flipped his hand dismissively. “Of course, if I somehow do return to Spain in my time, my two days’ absence, my failure to carry out my duties as an officer, will see the end of my army career.”

She raised her chin. “A person’s true character is revealed by adversity. It is when gentlemanly behavior is most needed.”

“Right. When the gentleman is most needed—by a woman. Well, I was certainly needed, and I saved you, lady, at the risk of my own life, regardless of my lack of character.” He stood, went to his pack, and pulled out the cups. Hands full, he stood in front of her.

She blanched and turned away from him, a stronger reaction than he expected. He set down the utensils on the bench by the food and waited.

When she didn’t respond or face him again, he plucked the medallion from her coat pocket—no, his coat pocket. As he did, she spun around and froze at the sight of it in his hand.

The medallion still radiated warmth. He undid the clasp and held it up in front of her.

Unshed tears made her gray-green eyes bright in the shadows of the barn. Rig stood and waited. Mel sat up straight, mouth rigid. She glanced from him to the necklace held up before her. Finally, she met his eyes, desperation flaring across her face. Rig steeled himself. He was not going to let tears or doe eyes derail him. He’d given in to such manipulation too often.

Mel’s old witch of a grandmother certainly hadn’t cared a damn about him when she concocted this hoodoo. He had to get free of it.

She didn’t move as he clasped the medallion around her neck. Then he stood back and waited.