“I’m sure you will.”
With a slight grin, he leaned against the side of the train; she eased herself against him.
No one else came to sit in the seats opposite them, so they were able to stretch out their legs.
It wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world—but at that moment it was the most wonderful, because they could doze together, because she rested against him, because he felt her warmth and listened to the rhythmic sound of her breath.
By the time he awakened, most of the people on the train seemed to be sleeping.
Using his pack, he created a pillow for Natal and he slid carefully from his seat, stepping over her legs. In the aisle he stretched and went in search of the facilities. They were at the rear of the car. He headed down the aisle quickly and was glad to find the restroom unoccupied.
The train switched tracks just as he was exiting. It jolted wildly to one side, pitching him against a man standing there.
The passenger began to curse at him wildly and furiously in Portuguese.
River didn’t really have a prayer of following, but it didn’t matter—he seemed to know exactly what the man was going on about.
Cursing seemed to translate well into any language.
“Hey—sorry! I’m sorry, okay?”
The man stared at him, then launched into another tirade, gesturing wildly.
River switched to Portuguese. “Desculpe t?-lo incomodado—desculpe!” he said, apologizing for having troubled the man.
That didn’t help either—not a bit.
It didn’t matter that River had tried to use the man’s native tongue. The fellow reeked of sour wine.
River shook his head, at a loss, ready to walk past him. But the drunk just wasn’t going to allow that to happen. The man flung an arm back and caught River with a sound right hook to the jaw.
Stunned, River stared at him.
There had been a time in his life when he’d spent too many days going house to house, well aware that insurgents could be around every corner, behind every door.
A man died if he didn’t react to an attack with instant reflexes.
In the back of his mind, the sound came again.
The sound of bombs whistling in the air, the sound of the explosions …
And he reacted.
He turned on the drunk, his fingers winding around his neck, his fury giving him an almost inhuman power.
“I—said—I—was—sorry!” River emphasized.
The man sputtered incoherently as he struggled against River’s grip, fighting for breath. His face was starting to turn purple before River came to.
The veteran blinked and shook his head, releasing the man. He realized that if he’d held his position just a few seconds longer, the drunk would be dead.
The drunk had sobered up; he stared at River with wide, terrified eyes.
“Just leave me be,” River said.
The drunk didn’t move.
Before River could turn and head back for his seat, one of the conductors came hurrying down the aisle.
He was pointing—and he was angry.
River closed his eyes, hating how quickly he’d launched into military mode. But he hadn’t hurt the man, not really—he’d be fine as soon as he caught his breath. His own jaw throbbed viciously. As the angry conductor stormed toward him, River found himself praying that the man spoke some English so that he could try to explain.
To his amazement, the conductor wasn’t angry with him—he was furious with the drunk. With River looking on, the conductor pulled at the other man’s shirt and ranted on. Then he turned to look at River.
“You’re hurt badly?”
“No, no—just sore.”
“You want to file some kind of charges?” the conductor asked.
“Charges?” River repeated. “Um, no, no.” He realized then that the conductor had seen the man strike River—he hadn’t seen River respond in an explosive manner. That was because, he realized, he’d pushed the drunk into the well by the train car’s exit, out of sight. “No—no charges,” he said. “He’s drunk.”
“Drunk too often. Get yourself a towel, sir, and some cold water. Hold it against your face. This idiot is lucky—he will drink too much and get himself killed one day, but it will not be on my train.”
River nodded blankly, wondering what—if anything—Natal had seen. He slipped back into the toilet and soaked some rough paper towels in cold water.
When he came out, the conductor was waiting.
“You have your ticket, sir?” he asked.
River reached into his pocket. He produced two tickets.
“You only need one,” the conductor said.
“The other is for the lady—up in the front?”
The conductor frowned, looking back down the aisle. He looked at River.
“She’s there—she must be sleeping with her head down,” River said.
The conductor shrugged and punched holes in both tickets. He looked at River. “You are certain, sir, that you’re all right?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’ll file no charges?”
The last thing he wanted was any exchange with the police.
“No—no charges.”
“He will be off at the next stop!” the conductor promised.
The drunk remained in the well, eyes closed. River told the conductor, “It’s up to you.”
He hurried back to his own seat, dismayed to see that the conductor had been right; Natal wasn’t there.
His heart sank. She had seen him—and she was afraid of his violence. She knew that he had stabbed a man and knocked out two of Amato’s goons. And now this …
Perhaps she had fled to another car.
But, then, as he neared the seat, she sprang up from her hiding spot.
She kept her voice low. “What happened?” she demanded, eyeing River in alarm. “Is everything all right? Your face!”
He told her about the drunk outside the bathroom, omitting the fact that he’d nearly strangled the man.
She shook her head in disgust. “Some people! They cannot handle the Carnaval season. They cannot handle themselves at all. He should be arrested.”
“It’s all right—the conductor was furious with him.”
“Your face,” she repeated. “Come here.”
She took the towels from him and pressed the sheets to his face, gently covering the bruising flesh, and then laying the sheets along his jawline and holding them there. He looked into her eyes as she cared for him.
“What? Why are you smiling? You’re hurt,” she chided.
“I don’t feel a thing.”
She actually blushed, looking down on him.
Then she kissed him, gently—and swiftly. They were, after all, on the train.
But as she held the paper towels to his face and laid her head back on his shoulder, she whispered to him, “Tomorrow … well, I will see that it doesn’t hurt at all.”
“How will you do that?”
“Distract you. I will distract you so thoroughly that … well, you will feel nothing.” She leaned closer for a moment, whispering against his ear, “Except for me.”
He ran his fingers over her hair and eased back into the seat, smiling. His jaw did smart, but the wet towels felt good. And his mind was on the days to come, and that took away from any pain he might feel.