Page 36 of Winter Longing
Tank’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Yeah, I feel bad for them. You know I love your aunt. And the longer we’re gone, the worse it’ll be for them, not knowing. Even the guys at the firehouse—shit, some of them are going to miss us,” he said, his attempt at lightness. “But Cole, what can we do about it? Nothing. So why wallow? This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Cole shook his head. “I’m not wallowing. I’m simply suggesting that we need a plan, that we should underline what our priorities are. You’re acting like it’s a vacation.”
Tank stepped closer, his grin giving way to earnestness. “Think about it. Before now, time travel was just a story, right? Something in movies or books. But we’re living it, Cole. We’re living in history. I’m not wasting that.”
Even though part of him almost envied Tank’s excitement, Cole couldn’t let go of his frustration.
Tank sighed, possibly understanding how deep Cole’s exasperation went. “This didn’t happen for no reason. It’s too big for that. Maybe it’s fate or some cosmic accident, but it’s real. I say we make it count.”
Cole snorted. “And what’s your grand purpose in all this?”
Tank’s grin returned, devilish and unrepentant, and waved his hand toward the soldiers as they began to march through the gate. “Shit, I’m gonna be a bloody warrior, man. I’m going to fight the good fight—help these people, stand up to the oppressors. It’s every guy’s dream. Back home, yeah, we’re sometimes small-time local heroes, sure. But here? We can really make a difference.”
“Tank, they fight to the death, you know” Cole said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. “This isn’t a game. You heard them last night—thousands die in these wars. You really think you’re ready for that?”
Tank’s grin dimmed, but his resolve didn’t falter. “I’ve always thought dying in a fire would be a good way to go. Heroic. Selfless. Maybe I’d get a street in Buffalo named after me.” He shrugged. “But these people—what they’re facing—it’s worse than any fire. And I can do something about it.Wecan do something about it.”
Cole wanted to argue, to point out the absurdity of Tank’s optimism. But his mind drifted to Ailsa. To the stories she’d shared about English raids, the burned villages and stolen families. He couldn’t deny the truth in Tank’s words.
Tank clapped him on the shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Look, man. You don’t have to agree with me. But don’t waste this. Whatever you decide, just don’t waste it.”
Cole stared at him, Tank’s enthusiasm both inspiring and maddening. Maybe this was Tank’s way of coping, of finding purpose in the impossible. Or maybe, Cole thought, Tank was onto something.
“This is nuts,” he pronounced, even as he began to consider his friend’s arguments.
“Might be,” Tank drawled. “Still—c’mon, dude—this is the opportunity of a lifetime.” He lifted his brows and surprised Cole by bringing Ailsa into his argument. “Nice and cozy, you andSinclair’s sister last night at dinner,” he remarked. “You gonna shoot your shot there? Or is that nuts, too? Ten bucks says you get back home and regret forever the chance you didn’t take with her.” And in typical Tank fashion, he irreverently pushed further. “And by the way, if you’re not going to do anything about that, I wouldn’t mind taking a stab at her.”
Cole growled internally and clenched his teeth. He didn’t particularly care for Tank’s phrasing. But then he also had to contend with his instinctive response to Tank’s proposition, making something out of whatever lived and breathed between him and Ailsa, what had bloomed and blossomed with a nearly frightening speed over what was only a few days, but that soared to life whenever she was near. He scoffed at any idea that Tank had a chance with Ailsa. It wasn’t necessarily arrogance, not anything that said he thought himself better than Tank; it was simply facts, how Ailsa responded to him, how she blushed and how she smiled, but more so with him than he’d noticed with Tank. Aside from her coolness this morning—brought on by his own idiocy—Ailsa’s behavior around him wasn’t so much different from his around hers. Apparently, awareness and infatuation with someone of the opposite sex hadn’t changed much over the centuries. She was at times shy and nervous, and he felt like a teenager again, not exactly confident, a little out of his element, as if he’d never dated, kissed, and so much more with another woman before.
Responding to the severe reaction in Cole’s countenance, Tank laughed again and held up his hands, palms forward, as if to impart that he was no threat. “'Nough said—or supposed by that face. So then let’s go see what this training’s about. Maybe you’ll be able to rescue a damsel in distress or something, win the lady’s favor, or whatever they call it.”
“How hard can it be?” Cole wondered, finally relenting, even as the idea of picking up a sword and fighting in a medieval war—possibly having to kill another or be killed—felt like madness.
Still, watching the rest of the motley crew exit the yard through the gate, a wry grin tugged at his lips. They appeared more like seasoned farmers than any proficient military unit. He imagined their techniques would be primitive and unrefined, their movements surely lacking a modern-day fighter’s finesse. Between Cole’s athleticism and modern mind and Tank’s military experience, Cole was certain these provincials had nothing on modern men.
Tavis rode his huge horse behind the last of the men and paused in front of Cole and Tank. Cole was certain he wore a smirk in his gaze if not in his expression.
“The field is open, sirs, and to there we go,” Tavis said. The smirk increased a bit. “We’re always in need of bodies to beat on.”
“We’re coming, Sinclair,” Tank said, happily picking up the figurative gauntlet thrown by the laird. “I’m ready to show you a thing or two about what a Marine can do.”
Tavis was amused by Tank’s swagger even as he couldn’t possibly understand Tank’s reference. “We are always delighted to be entertained.”
Tank chuckled good-naturedly, thrilled with the challenge, and he and Cole fell into step behind Tavis.
“We’ll show 'em a thing or two,” Tank said to Cole. “Maybe that’s the big ‘why’—why we were brought or sent here, to give these guys a leg up in the fighting.”
Willing to adopt Tank’s mindset—somewhat—wondering if his reasoning might have some merit, Cole knew a bit of—well, not enthusiasm, but he was game for the moment. “Let’s do this.”
***
“In truth, it is their staggering ineptness that makes me distrust them so much less.”
Ailsa’s brother’s words reached her, but her attention remained fixed on the scene unfolding down the hill. Cole was sparring against one of Tavis's soldiers, a strong, wiry lad who moved with practiced precision.
Cole was failing miserably.
He swung wide with a clumsy thrust, his movements lacking any real coordination or understanding of the fight. She winced as the soldier ducked, rolled, and came up behind Cole in one smooth motion. With a swift strike, the lad knocked Cole’s legs out from under him with his wooden sword, which was all that was allowed on the practice field.
