He glanced behind him, trying to gauge how Natalie was holding out. Damn, she was tough. She hadn’t complained once, though he knew this had to be hard for her, both physically and mentally. Combat-style sleep deprivation, a forced night march, the ever-present threat of violence—she’d never been through anything like this before.
Then again, neither had he.
In the past when he’d been in circumstances like these, he’d been with other men who’d undergone the same training he had. They’d had his back, and he’d had theirs. Or he’d tried.
Which doesn’t explain why they’re dead and you’re not, does it, McBride?
He forced the thought aside, refusing to let it distract him.
Natalie had no military or law enforcement training. She was dependent on him in a way that his SEAL team and fellow DUSMs had never been. He’d never felt so entirely responsible for another person’s life as he had these past few days—and it scared the hell out of him.
He found himself listening to her breathing, the tread of her boots against the sand, his gaze drawn over his shoulder time and again as he tried to determine whether she needed to rest, eat something, or drink more. But so far, so good.
They’d been walking for almost five hours now, the terrain steeper as they moved into the foothills south of Baboquivari Peak, which would serve as their guidepost. By dawn, they ought to be able to see its rocky summit jutting into the sky like a giant tooth. They would keep it on their right, heading diagonally—
“Ooh!” A gasp of pain.
Zach turned to find Natalie holding her arm, an ocotillo branch snagged on the collar of her jacket. “Hold still.”
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I was watching my feet. I didn’t see it.”
He took the branch and pulled it free, careful to keep the thorns away from her face. But there on the right side of her neck was a deep, nasty scratch. “Let’s take a break, and I’ll look at that.”
He drew her to some nearby rocks, sent a scorpion flying with his boot before she could spot it, then shucked his backpack and helped her out of hers. Then he opened his pack, drew out the first-aid kit and a couple of energy bars. “Eat. How are your feet?”
She took one of the bars and tore open its wrapper. “The left one is just a little sore on the heel.”
“Let’s look at that, too.” Figuring the moonlight would be enough, he shed the night vision goggles and his gloves, set them on the pack where nothing was likely to crawl inside them, then opened the first-aid kit and drew out a Betadine swab. “Tilt your head to the left. Perfect. This is pretty deep, so the antiseptic is going to sting.”
She gasped, squeezed her eyes shut, the energy bar stopped just short of her lips.
He worked quickly, spreading antibiotic ointment on it, and then covering the scratch with an adhesive bandage. “Okay, now the foot.”
“Yes, Mom.” She gave him a teasing look, then reached to unlace her left boot.
He beat her to it. He drew off her boot and sock and set them in her lap. Then he grabbed the moleskin out of the first-aid kit. “Were you and your mother close?”
What’s the matter with you, McBride? Now you’re asking the nosy questions.
Natalie nodded. “I was an only child, so, yes, she and I were close. I was close to my father, too. They were the best parents in the world.”
“They’d be incredibly proud if they could see you now—the way you’ve handled this, how much you’ve done for yourself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so.”
“I miss them. Every day of my life, I miss them.” Her voice was filled with sadness.
He took a piece of moleskin, tore off the adhesive strip, and wrapped the protective flannel around her heel where he could just feel the beginning of a blister. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She looked up at him, rested a hand on his arm. “No, don’t be. I don’t m—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and listened.
Men’s voices.
WITHOUT ZACH NEEDING to tell her what to do, Natalie drew on her sock, crammed her foot into her boot, and began lacing. By the time she was finished, Zach had her pack ready. She slipped into the shoulder straps and fastened the hip belt.