Saving the Rifleman by Julie Rowe Page A

their route. Could she manage the terrain? How much farther could she travel? Where did she think they should stop?
    He also frequently smiled at her and at one point, when they climbed out of a steep gully, kissed the back of her hand. She tried to explain it away as camaraderie, but he didn’t make her feel like a fellow soldier at arms. No, he made her feel like a woman.
    In the hour before dawn, he slowed their pace down. She thought he was being cautious, but changed her mind when he stumbled and nearly fell. His breathing was rapid. She put her hand on his forehead and felt a chill through her bones at the heat he gave off.
    A fever meant one thing. Infection. First it would slow him, then stop him and perhaps even kill him. No matter which course it took, she had to find somewhere for them to rest and check his wound.
    Farms dotted the landscape, but if they picked the wrong one, they could end up in German custody. She consulted her map and found they weren’t far from the last safe place to stay. They headed toward it, walking parallel to the road, but as the velvet back of night turned into day, dark smoke ahead made Maria pull John farther from the road into heavier brush. She left him—sweating, shivering, sitting with his back against a tree—only after he’d promised not to move.
    It wasn’t easy walking away. She felt as if someone had torn one arm off, but finding a haven where they could rest and she could check his wound was paramount.
    She crossed a fallow field to a low stone wall. On the other side a farm yard lay in a smoking ruin. She could see at least three bodies on the ground near what must have been the house.
    Despair weakened her knees and she had to put out a hand on the stone to hold herself up. So much for safety.
    A noise on the road caught her attention and she saw movement. The flash and crack of gunfire thrust strength back into her muscles. She ran from the farm and road into a long line of thick brush.
    A stream greeted her on the other side of the brush, and she followed it for a short distance until she came upon a small stone building almost completely overgrown with vines. She hadn’t seen it from the field. Still, it had a roof, so she went inside to see if it was habitable enough for a day or two.
    A hearth dominated one end of the single room, a table the other. It wasn’t very big—perhaps twelve paces wide—but the roof appeared whole and the inside was dry.
    She hurried back to where she’d left John and found him asleep, perspiration coating his face. The inside of her mouth went dry, but she ignored it and shook him awake.
    He was unsteady on his feet, yet she managed to get him into the stone house. He lay down on the floor near the hearth, asleep almost before his head touched the floor.
    She checked his breathing, which seemed normal, then touched his forehead. Hot, so hot. He needed fluids and his wound tended. She dredged up the last of her energy and covered him with her cloak.
    There was plenty of deadfall right outside the door. She collected some and put it on the hearth. With all the smoke coming from the burned farm, she doubted anyone would notice, let alone investigate what little smoke might escape the overgrown thicket.
    She cleaned out the debris-clogged hearth then started a fire. She found a worn broom in a corner and swept more debris out the doorway, checking on John every so often. In the process, she found an iron pot with a handle. Probably one used to heat water or cook in over the hearth.
    She took it to the stream, washed it out, filled it with water and hung it over the fire. A stand of willow trees hung over the stream. She took her small knife and chipped off several slivers of willow bark, brought them inside and put them into the water. It was the only medicine she had.
    While the water heated and came to a boil, she continued to sweep out the room, discovering a badly chipped bowl, but no other useful items. She took the pot off the