by Kari August
Dickie was determined that even if they did not win this competition that Clarence and he had to at least beat the jackasses.
Dickie surveyed the acres of rising, rocky land where they were supposed to hide from the Seals who would later try to find them. Whichever team was found last would win the most points. He quickly concluded where they should conceal themselves. They were each given a shovel to be able to dig in if necessary.
Shortly thereafter, Clarence insisted on giving Dickie a high five. “This place is great.”
“Glad you approve. Now let’s get to work.”
“They hid fifteen feet from the starting line!”
Bongo shook his head. “I know.”
“The loosened gravel by those rocks and thorny shrubs was assumed to be from all the men kicking and standing around, listening to the initial instructions. And because they had scarcely moved and had all that extra time, they could make the site perfect. Our Seals sailed on by, without one concern they were missing them. We finally had to call to get them to reveal where they were.”
“Please don’t tell me they were napping again.”
Rooter didn’t reply at first. “Well, that Dickie did appear as if perhaps . . .”
“He knows to grab sleep when he can. Do you think he has some military training we weren’t informed about?”
Rooter thought a moment. “He is British. . . .”
“The SAS—the Special Air Service of the British special forces.” Bongo then looked over the form again the pair had submitted. “Here’s the problem. The inquiry is about whether either has had experience in the American military—originally this was supposed to be a show about Americans only.”
“Aw, hell. I’ll be damned if we’re going to let some British SAS beat our American Seals.”
Bongo nodded. “We’re going to have to become more cunning, raise the difficulty . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
Mags was so happy she could not stop smiling—but neither could Charlie. They had spent the afternoon making love, then napping, then leisurely doing it again—except when Waldemar once tried jumping on the bed. Then Charlie had gotten up to give him a toy, and they had returned to their activities. Charlie seemed as if he could not get enough of her!
My heavens! What she had been missing all these years. The excitingly pleasing . . . no, that didn’t quite describe it . . . the intense super happy feelings. . . no, still not enough.
But also . . . she loved feeling so close, so intimate, so with someone. No, that was not quite adequate either. She adored being as if one with Charlie.
They currently were scandalously holding hands—that never was done in public during her time—at their table in the Jenny Lake Lodge restaurant, a charming inn that added to the romance of the whole day. Charlie had told her to wear nice attire since the place was known for its rustic elegance. She could have worn another dress but picked the one Charlie had bought her. When she had looked more closely, she had seen that the print at the hem contained daisylike, marguerite flowers—which were her symbol because of her name—and also light-colored roses—the symbol of her York family.
Charlie had bought some more clothes when he had purchased the chess set in town and was wearing a nice outfit that emphasized his good looks. They had just finished telling each other some stories about when they each were kids. Mags had liked riding horses, and Charlie had loved sailing and swimming at some beach house his family owned.
Charlie chuckled. “Why ever are you turning pink now, Mags?”
She turned redder. “Just started thinking about this afternoon again.”
“Uh, I take it your husband and you were not so adventurous.”
She shook her head. “Oh . . . no.” She hesitated. “Charles was—”
“He had the same name as me?”
She nodded and continued. “He was strictly religious. He attended church services punctiliously and never swore and would not even tolerate blasphemous expressions to be said around him—”
“And only believed in the missionary position. I kind of gathered.” Mags colored more and Charlie bit back a smile. “You shouldn’t be so embarrassed. I had fun watching you experience some things today for the first time.”
“Charlie, stop.” She looked around to see if anyone had heard him and then smiled shyly.
He chuckled. “So how long have you been a widow?” He took a sip of his soup.
“Many years. Charles perished in battle.” She thought how she had been a dowager for twenty-six long years before she had passed away herself.
“And you never thought about remarrying?”
She shook her head. “I finally had some independence and was rich enough at the time to take pleasure in it. A marriage would have complicated things for my family . . . but also . . .” She hesitated. She didn’t know if she wanted to reveal the next reason, but she realized Charlie would want to be informed—so he wouldn’t have any false hopes about her. He would surely break things off with her. She blinked back tears. “I . . . um, am barren. I can’t have any children, and I realized no man would be interested in me—”
“You have got to be kidding me. You held out that fact until now?”
She felt worse.
Charlie smiled consolingly. “Ah, Mags. I’m so sorry if it’s a source of sorrow for you. But, for me? I don’t have a problem with it.” He grinned. “I think it’s got its advantages. Forget about using any protection tonight—no, sirree. I can’t wait.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “But, Charlie, don’t you want children?”
He shrugged. “If it happened, well, okay. But I’m more interested in the woman.”
She held back more tears. She hadn’t known men like him.
“I mean we can do it that way tonight because at least I don’t have anything nasty on my parts.” He attempted to look concerned. “But how about you?”
She knew he was trying to cheer her up. “Certainly not,” she replied, mocking offense, though the inquiry had some merit. Her stepson-in-law Maximilian had caught something devastating after her stepdaughter had passed away—supposedly spread to the continent from soldiers who had travelled to the New World. At least that was the rumor. And he never fathered any more legitimate children despite marrying again into the powerful Italian Sforza family.
“So, uh, how religious actually are you, Mags?”
“I’m devout. I think God is interesting—”
“Like he’s a friend of yours?” He chuckled.
If only he knew, she thought, and continued. “But recently I have had a change of opinion for what he expects of us.”
“Do tell.” He ate some of his salad.
“Well, I’m not worried any longer about getting into heaven so I have relaxed some of my behavior.”
“For which I was extremely appreciative today.” He grinned.
She couldn’t help smiling. “But I also know . . . I mean I think that there is a diversity of beliefs and practices of people in heaven so the expression, we are all God’s creatures, has some credence.”
“Well said, Mags.”
“I also am proud that I have given to so many charities and religious organizations.” She had helped build churches and had contributed to convents and monasteries which had acted as orphanages and places of refuge—especially Augustinian and Franciscan. Once she had even founded a home for reformed prostitutes and had firmly believed that if one of the women wanted to leave to get married that she should be able to—not always the situation at some religious houses.
“Uh, huh,” was his only comment as he kept eating.
“But I also think reform is important.” She had staunchly supported the advancement of clergy based on their conduct and education—a controversial idea at the time. She had not liked bishops or priests to be promoted just because they came from a noble family and had made her opinion known more than once. She had developed a scholarship so the poor could enter the clergy also—Pope
Adrian VI had benefitted in particular from her generosity.
“And yet, I like the old traditions,” she continued.
“I never would have guessed.” He bit back a smile.
She had not wanted to see the service changed in her time and now thought about the one she had attended recently. “The issue is complicated. What about you, Charlie?”
He thought a moment. “I don’t attend church.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about yourself?”
He hesitated again. “No, I want to tell you that I’m not always a slob.”
She looked at him puzzled.
“I’ve been messy on this trip because . . . I wanted to—”
“Because you wanted to?”
“Yeah. It was part of my being tired of always doing the correct thing—of taking responsibility all the time. I’m also usually the leader in situations. But now . . .”
“But now, what?”
“Well, since being around you . . . I don’t have to think for everyone all the time. You are the dutiful one. You take the initiative . . . at least sometimes. So, I guess I don’t mind now when I have to be . . . the adult.”
“Uh, huh.”
He chuckled. “You don’t believe me.”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t say that—”
“But you’re thinking it. Well, prepare to be astounded. Tomorrow when I turn in the truck, I’ll fold my clothes and throw out the trash in my own car.”
“We’ll see . . .”
He laughed. “I swear. You won’t recognize the vehicle—at least the inside of it.”
“So, tomorrow we leave.”
“Yep. On to Wind Cave. And then . . .” He shrugged, but smiled.
And then they would have to split apart. She knew it even if he did not want to voice it now. The thought was awful and without a way to make it better. How had she become so attached to Charlie in such a short time? She was desperate not to think about it until she absolutely had to. “Can I drive at least part of the way?”
He considered a moment. “Well, now, that’s a really important step in our relationship—I prize that car.”
“All I have to do is push some things on the floor and steer—how difficult could that be?”
“I’m getting the impression you’ve never driven before.”
“I haven’t.”
“What?” He chuckled and waved his fork. “Oh, no. Not a chance. Not with that car.”
“Let’s decide it by another game of chess. If I win, I get to drive.”
“And if I win again, we play the next game, no matter where it is, without our clothes on.”
She gasped.
“You’re turning red again, Duchess.”
“Is this going to be your new way to annoy me?”
“I’m hoping bother you, but let’s not quibble over words.”
Chapter Nineteen
Clarence and Dickie were getting clobbered. At least every time they were supposed to do anything involving hiking or running. Oh, they would complete the assignment, but just nearly. The jackasses, however, were always winning those types of competitions.
Luckily, Clarence was strong enough for both of them and could make a show in anything involving strength such as hauling logs across the shoreline. Unfortunately, the jackasses excelled in that also.
Dickie could not tolerate the situation. He was determined to beat them.
That was one of the reasons he had relished their activity yesterday. In preparation for their last mission in a couple days, he had been shown how to use all sorts of modern weaponry and also how to transition smoothly between a pistol and a rifle. Oh, they wouldn’t be using real weapons, they had been assured, but aiming well would be important.
Then they had been taken to a range where they were supposed to hit a fake person on a piece of paper different distances away. Points were given for which team was the most accurate. Ah ha! Finally! Not only had Dickie gathered valuable experience for when he returned to heaven and led his warrior club, but they had crushed the jackasses. Oh, they hadn’t won the competition—the warrior team of Red and T had succeeded in that—but their points were well above the jackasses—who for some reason could not hit a thing.
Dickie wondered if it was their outrageously huge arms preventing them from aiming properly. But then the former Seals were built as enormously, and they didn’t have any problems. Well, whatever the reason, he was happy.
Currently they were receiving instructions in how to sneak into a building—how one partner should be the point position and the other watch the rear, trying for three-sixty surveillance, as they approached the building, how to signal a halt and then readiness to proceed by squeezing your partner on the shoulder, and then how to cautiously look for your target within the structure—not hugging the walls where bullets also liked to hug—and then how they should breach the door to the room.
Clarence nodded slowly and smugly—as if he knew. “Oh, yeah. A little C4.”
Rooter ran up to him immediately. “Do you honestly think, DoubleR, that we would let you use explosives?” He looked skyward—Dickie noticed that he did that a lot with Clarence. And yet . . . Rooter was softening towards him. All the former Seals were, even Bongo. Dickie caught them holding back smiles at many of his comments. They took the time to give Clarence more detailed instructions. And they seemed to take pride that they were getting Clarence leaner and meaner—or at least more informed.
Not so much for him. Dickie intuitively sensed a distrust or wariness that they had of him. He was not sure why. Perhaps they thought he was cleverer than anyone else—which Dickie knew he was. Or could they finally be appreciating his military prowess and were jealous? That was undoubtedly a factor. But Rooter now was bashing in a door with some ramming device, and Dickie tried to pay more attention.
Of course, Dickie scoffed, this handheld battery ram was nothing nearly as impressive as what they had used in his time. These little girly doors were flimsy compared to the gates at a substantial castle.
“One of your most important strategies should be—”
Clarence raised his hand, waving excitedly, yearning to talk. He barged ahead, not waiting for Rooter to give permission. And then in a singsong tone, he swerved his head confidently and uttered, “Oh, yeah. S-S-V in C-Q-B!”
Rooter, naturally, looked at the clouds again while some of the other former Seals snorted chuckles. Rooter returned his gaze to Clarence. “Why don’t you instruct this group, Double R? Tell them all your expertise. Just what is S-S-V?”
“First you always do speed, then comes surprise and finally violence of force in close quarter battle.”
Rooter spoke slowly. “Well, see, some men would think that surprising your victim first would be important at times before any speeding along took place—which actually should be more a controlled hurry—but, hey, you’re the authority. I suppose if you weren’t so concerned about ever using any stealth then hustling along always first would be great. What do you think, Bongo?”
“I’ve never used stealth.” He mocked sarcastically.
“And see, I would prefer—just saying, Double R—violence of action,” Rooter continued. “But, hey, that’s only me.”
Clarence nodded, appearing unconcerned about any error. “Gotcha.”
And then instead of glaring at Clarence, Rooter scowled a moment at Dickie. What had he done?
He knew it. He just knew it. Rooter was envious of Dickie. In fact, Dickie wouldn’t be surprised if the whole bunch of them were jealous of him and his military proficiency. He inwardly smiled—it was nice being respected like this.
Rooter frowned. “I think he was faking it yesterday. He acted as if he hadn’t ever used some of those weapons.”
“Yeah, my ass. But Dickie could somehow then hit the target.” Bongo smirked.
“Perhaps he played with arrows as a kid and learned about aiming.”
“Oh, sure. That’s it.” Bongo he
sitated a moment in thought. “Look, the point is we have to alter the mission for tomorrow. Instead of the teams rafting in to the rocky shoreline and grabbing the flag from the beach, let’s require them to climb the mountain for the target flag and then return to their crafts. He hates hiking and lazes around on purpose. Let’s try to wear the turd out.”
“He’ll shit when he sees how big that mountain is.” Rooter smiled.
Bongo nodded sagely. “We can only hope.”
Clarence was good with boats. Dickie thought it probably helped that he lived by a beach, but he also could see that he had some natural smarts in regards to the water. The teams had been given three different areas in which they could land their raft—first come first serve. The most obvious place, as far as Dickie had been concerned, was the location that seemed to have few rocks. But Clarence had objected, stating that the whole shore probably had some rocks, but the place where some came out sort of like a protective jetty would probably be the quickest place to land in such rough waves. He had then scurried their raft to that mooring site, and they had beaten the others. So far.
Dickie now gazed up at the mountain they were supposed to ascend. He inwardly shook his head—it was a monster. Luckily, he had noticed before they had landed that there appeared to be farther along the strand a place where a river entered the water. Sure, they were in some remote rural location, but Dickie did not know of a place where a river met a larger amount of water and there was not some settlement. He had an idea about how they could win. He started walking.
“Dickie, where are you going? We’re supposed to climb the mountain.”
“We will.”
“You’re going the wrong direction,” Clarence stated, but started to follow him anyways.
“Trust me. I’ll be duly surprised if my notion does not lead us to a win.”
A half hour later, Dickie smiled in satisfaction.
Clarence appeared apprehensive. “Let me get this straight. You expect us to steal a couple of these horses grazing here—”
“borrow—”
“—and then ride them up the mountain and then—”