Saint by T.L. Gray Page A

This
time don’t look at the spot you plan on hitting. It’s in the eyes. The eyes
will always give away the direction of your movement. And just remember,
Angelface, this was the colonel’s idea.”
    * * * * *
    Morning came too soon.
    “Okay, lazybones, let’s move out.”
    Maria groaned, rolling over to pull the
covers tighter about her shoulders. “I can’t. I think I’m dead.” Every muscle
in her body ached, even ones she hadn’t known existed. She told herself if she
was this pathetically out of shape it was because of the forced inactivity of
the past six months. At the moment she felt more like seventy-nine than
twenty-nine.
    “All the more reason to get moving. It’ll
loosen you up. Five minutes. That includes getting dressed this time.”
    “It will take more than five minutes for me
to—”
    “Time’s wasting,” he called, already
halfway down the hall.
    It wasn’t going to happen. Every limb
screamed in protest and she hadn’t even managed to stand up yet. It took a hell
of a lot longer than any five minutes, but Francis didn’t come back. Her plate
was on the table when she made it to the kitchen, gingerly easing her abused
body into the chair.
    “I told the colonel this PT thing wasn’t a
good idea,” he said in mock apology, filling the cup she held up. “Women aren’t
physically attuned to nature like men.”
    “Physically attuned to nature?” If she could
move her arm, it would be possible to actually sip her coffee.
    “Just tell me one thing.” He crossed his
muscled forearms, leaning back against the counter. “What woman in her right
mind wants to live in a foxhole for weeks or months on end?”
    None she knew. Then again, her brain was
just now registering the fact it was no longer the boss of what her body did or
didn’t do. “Is this a trick question?”
    “No. Philosophical.”
    “I don’t know. It’s never been a dream of
mine to live in a foxhole.”
    “My point exactly. Men are hunters, women
are gatherers. The only thing a woman is going to gather in a foxhole or an
airless tank is a bad case of jock-itch, if you know what I mean.”
    “Oh good, another chauvinist, because you
can’t have too many.” So, Francis thought she couldn’t hack his training
schedule. She could. If she wanted to.
    “You betcha. I like my women soft and
curvy, not hard and masculine.”
    “You sound like my father,” she said to her
coffee cup, now that she’d managed to get it to her lips.
    “Your father was a smart man.”
    Maria held out her plate for a second
helping. Her appetite had increased over the last several days in proportion to
her physical activity. “What’s on the agenda for today, rock climbing?”
    “Close. Tree climbing.”
    “Never know when you’ll have to climb a
tree, huh?”
    “Nah. I just like climbing trees. But it
does come in handy when you’re scouting.”
    By the time the evening fog settled in on
the mountain she was too tired to think or move, even too exhausted to swat at
the mosquitoes emerging into the dusk to hunt their victims.
    Francis sprawled leisurely on the steps
after dinner, smoking. “Can you sing?” he asked suddenly.
    “You mean like a church hymn?”
    “Whatever. It’s too quiet. Sing something.”
    Quiet? “How can you hear anything over that
racket the crickets are making?”
    “I don’t want to hear crickets. I want to
hear a human voice. Sing.”
    She thought about it, recalled a Spanish
song her father had taught her. Her voice wasn’t the best in the world, but it
wasn’t the worst either. Francis didn’t seem to mind. He leaned his head back
against the post and closed his eyes as she sang the verses.
    * * * * *
    Six feet of blond Marine met her the next
morning as she stumbled into the kitchen, thinking to surprise Francis by being
up and dressed before he had breakfast in the pan. Why that seemed like a good
idea, she didn’t know. In retrospect it sucked. Unable to help herself, she let
out a piercing