Page 78 of Winter Longing
Cole felt the weight of the words settle between them. “Nor I you, Tank. But let’s fight side by side and keep an eye on each other’s backs.”
Tank nodded but added with a faint smirk, “Fine, but seriously, stay a half step behind me. It’ll make it easier for you to watch my back.”
Cole grinned and shook his head, but then briefly worried more about his own competence. If Tank was questioning it, Cole felt like maybe he didn’t realize the exact depths of his own unpreparedness.
“Deal,” Cole said but knew he wouldn’t be hiding behind anyone. Able or not, it wasn’t his style.
Tonight, as ever, the camp bustled with subdued activity. They remained several miles from the English, a safe distance. Small fires lit up the landscape for miles. Cole and Tank sat around the one they’d made. Cole sat near their modest blaze on a small log he’d found, a warm bowl of watery stew cradled in his hands. Tank leaned back against a tree, his breath misting in the chilly air. They talked more now than ever, had possibly exchanged more words in the last month on this march than in all their ten years of knowing each other. Sometimes, they revisited shared memories, sometimes they talked sports,wondering if they could introduce lacrosse or football to the fourteenth century. On other occasions, such as tonight, they talked of trivial things, merely to pass the time.
“Coffee wakes you upandmakes you a better, kinder person,” Cole declared with mock authority as they debated the merits of coffee versus tea.
“Tea doesn’t make you jittery,” Tank shot back. “Plus, you can drink it hot, cold, sweet, plain—it’s versatile.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “Coffee is life, man. Besides, tea tastes like wet grass.”
“You’ve just been drinking the wrong tea.”
“Right,” Cole said with a smirk. “And now—along with cold-pressed juices—you’re a tea connoisseur.”
Tank chuckled but didn’t respond, his attention shifting to a figure approaching from the shadows. Cole followed his gaze, instinctively tensing as the stranger walked with purpose directly toward them.
The man moved with a predator’s ease, his steps soundless against the frozen ground. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in a plaid cloak that had seen better days. Long, dark hair framed a rugged, angular face marked by scars—testaments to a life spent in battle, Cole might presume. His sharp eyes glinted in the firelight, their intensity almost unnerving. Cole recognized him vaguely as one of the lairds in this combined army, though he couldn’t recall his name. The man’s presence radiated authority, a quiet, unyielding power that made Cole instinctively straighten.
“Mind if I join ye?” the man asked, his voice a low rumble.
Cole glanced at Tank, who shrugged. “Sure,” Cole said cautiously.
The man settled on his haunches near the fire, his gaze flicking between them. For a moment, he seemed to be weighingsomething, then he spoke. “I have a question, and I’d appreciate an honest answer.”
Tank raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”
“What year were ye born?” the man asked, his tone even but his gaze sharp.
Cole froze, the question striking him like a bolt out of the blue. Tank, too, looked caught off guard.
“Why do you ask?” Cole managed, his voice steady despite the jolt of nerves.
“Yer English sounds similar to that of my wife.”
Cautiously, Cole wondered, “And what does that have to do with what year we were born?”
“My wife is from some place I’d never heard of—Florida?”
Cole somehow managed to prevent his eyes from widening. This man, whoever he was, shouldn’t know about Florida, not unless medieval Europe had one that he didn’t know about. “Is she?” He asked, his hackles raised a bit.
“Aye,” said the man, his tone mild, conversational. He glanced around to ensure they weren’t overheard, then leaned in slightly. “If I asked ye what an airplane was, would ye ken what I meant?” He asked cryptically even as Cole had some suspicion that he was trying to appear casual, didn’t want to alarm them, or give too much away.
Cole was flabbergasted by what he guessed the man was trying to say, to impart. Never had it occurred to him that there might be others, people aside from him and Tank who’d been moved through time.
“Son of a...” Tank breathed. “Was your wife born in a year that begins with one and nine?”
Very subtle, Tank, Cole thought.
“Might’ve been,” the man allowed, his mouth lifting in the barest grin. “Ye?”
“Maybe,” Tank returned, equally as non-committal.
“Yer secret is safe with me,” the man assured them. “My wife—she’s nae from here either.” He stood and leaned over toward Cole, extending his hand. “Reid Nicholson,” he introduced himself. “Charlotte tells me this hand shake is how it’s done...eventually.” He said hand shake definitively as two words.
