by Drake, Laura
A waiting rider said, “Seniority, ha. It just takes old guys longer to get stuff moving.”
Cam glared. “Maybe so, but once my stuff gets moving, it’ll beat the diaper off you.”
The guys’ focus turned to joshing the rookie, and Cam stepped to Katya’s table.
“Here you go, Jory.” She lifted a small jar out of her backpack and handed it to him. “This one I formulated especially for you. It has grapefruit essential oil to help with muscle stiffness in that forearm. If you rub it on your face, it’ll help with that acne.”
“Thanks, Katya.” The kid sprang off the treatment table like that was easy and walked away.
Cam used the excuse of climbing on the table to lean in close, inhaling her exotic scent. “Whatcha got for me?”
She flushed pink, shot a look around the room, and whispered, “I’m not kissing you in the middle—”
“No, I meant, is there one of those little jars in your backpack for me?” He smiled, his eyes on her lips and lowered his voice, “But if you want to kiss me, I’m all for it.”
Her eyes narrowed then she smacked his bare shoulder. “Lie down, you big ape. I don’t have anything strong enough to fix that swelled head.”
He lay back and watched her expression. “Do I owe you yet another apology for last night?”
“You might owe Buster one. I’ve figured you out.” She actually snorted. “You’re just a very tall two-year-old.”
He raised a fist to his heart. “Now that hurts.”
She reached into her bag, a small smile on her full lips. He made himself look away before his body embarrassed him.
She shook a bottle, squirted some great smelling oil on her palms, and rubbed her hands together. His skin tingled, anticipating her touch. “When are you leaving for Medicine Lodge?” The Kansas event would be the last before the two-week prefinals break.
Her strong fingers went to work on his shoulder. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Why?”
“Hmmm, that feels good.” The tightness in his shoulder loosened. “My flight doesn’t leave until morning. I hoped we could have dinner tonight before you leave.”
“I don’t know. Do you promise to lock up the two-year-old?”
She didn’t wear lipstick while working, but her lips were naturally a dusky red, and her hands definitely were not relaxing things below his waist. He whispered, “Oh, babe, I promise—nothing but man.” He’d never get tired of watching her blush.
She worked his shoulder with her eyes closed, a look of concentration on her face. It allowed him to study her up close, unobserved. What a brimming handful of a woman. Her lithe body, deep lake-green eyes, and wild hair had entranced him. In bed, she’d shed the mantle of prim professional with her clothing. What remained was a sensual Gypsy: unbound, uninhibited, untamed.
Her passion made him burn.
You lust after her.
But it was more than that. He’d known Katya for more than two months now. He’d had the benefit of these capable hands, doing their job. Seeing her with the cowboys, he could tell that she no longer saw them as spoiled athletes. They mattered. It was clear in her personalized concoctions, her relaxed conversations, her gentle hands. She’d earned a place in the treatment room. Not an easy thing to do for a woman.
Then there was Katya, the battle-tested soldier. He’d watched her struggle with what he now knew to be enough damage to take a good man down.
You admire her.
All true. Still, there was another layer. Leaving her that first night had wrenched something in his chest like a mental ligament tear. He hadn’t felt quite himself ever since. As if something was missing. And it was her.
You want her to stay. For good.
He’d woken with those words burned in his mind. Katya couldn’t leave. Not until they’d gotten to the bottom of this thing brewing between them. If it wasn’t to her what he was beginning to suspect it was to him, he’d let her go. Somehow.
Once he’d opened the rusty door in his mind to possibly consider a new career, it stuck open. He and Katya had agreed not to name their relationship, but without a slot to nestle in, it bumped around in Cam’s mind. He kept coming back to that unresolved question. She may not want to name it, but he had to. Dammit, he was too old, too tired for mind games, especially with himself.
You love her.
It wasn’t that the knowledge made his guts squirm. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how she felt.
It just was.
There was no use denying it. It was there, solid as bedrock.
Tonight he’d mention his plans for the two-week break—plans he wanted to be a part of. Plans he hoped to convince her to be a part of.
Thank you God, for a comparatively injury-free event. Katya stood before her hotel mirror, getting ready for her dinner date with Cam. The plan to have two small braids pulling back from her temples and held in a clip at the back of her head had her wishing she had three hands. Her phone buzzed.
Make that four hands.
When she glanced at the number on the display, she dropped her hair and snatched up the phone. “Second Lieutenant Smith.” For a moment, all she heard was a long distance hiss, and the frantic beat of her heart.
“Lieutenant Smith. Major Thibodaux.”
He didn’t have to identify himself; she wasn’t likely to forget the gruff voice of the lead surgeon of Role 3 hospital in Kandahar.
“Sir. I have been working with the psychologist you put me in touch with. I’m hoping that in a month, he’ll clear me to—”
“Smitty.”
He wouldn’t use her nickname if it wasn’t bad news. Her knees gave out and she landed on the hard mattress. She put her elbows on her knees and took as deep a breath as her muscles would allow. “Sir.”
“There was a bombing. One hit the hospital. We had casualties. Three deaths.”
The fist-punch words hit her solar plexus. “No.”
He named two surnames she didn’t recognize. And one that made her muscles spasm.
“No. Not Carol.” One of her roommates from B Hut. “She has two kids. In Missouri.” She bit her tongue to stop the high-pitched robot voice. It was scaring her.
“I’m sorry as hell to have to call with bad news, Smitty. But I knew you’d want to know.”
“I just talked to her…” A month ago? No. Longer. Acid dumped into her churning stomach. How had she let so much time pass without calling? And now she couldn’t.
“I have to go, Smitty. Promise me you’ll call that psychologist and talk to him about this.”
“I will, sir.”
”That’s an order, Lieutenant. We need you back as soon as you can get here. But I need you healthy.”
“Yes, sir.” She hung up and dropped the phone in her shirt pocket, but it fell to the floor. She cradled her head in her hands.
Of course you do. The machine is short three cogs. She slapped a hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom. She just made it.
After, she lay curled on the cold tile, her brain spinning like a tire in mud.
Here she’d been playing at being sixteen again. Doctor’s orders or no, she’d allowed her real calling to drift into the murky past right along with her memory of Murphy. Her stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left in it. She swallowed, breathing shallow until it settled.
While she’d been telling funny war stories to cowboys, men and women were dying. Her friends. Her family. Every. Single. Day. How could she have let herself forget? What kind of person did that?
Her conscience squirmed, trying to get away from itself. Memories unfurled in her mind: rows of bloody broken men, the sound of helicopters bringing more. Always more. Brutal sun on rubble. A stuffed rabbit, scorched and torn.
She crawled out of the bathroom on her hands and knees and onto the bed. She would need to call Dr. Heinz. But the thought of confessing her sin to him made her gorge rise again. It was too raw right now. Too immediate. She’d call tomorrow.
She
shivered, feeling as if the cold of the tile had seeped into her bones. Pulling the comforter over her, she rolled to her side, staring out the window into the parking lot. Shame etched words on the prison cell wall in her mind. Disengaged. Dishonor. Deserter.
CHAPTER
22
Five o’clock straight up, Cam knocked on Katya’s door. The parking lot stood almost empty, since everyone else had headed out of town right after the event. The low sun dipped behind a cloud and a cool wind ruffled his jacket. Sitting in his room for the past half hour, he’d made himself wait; the television on for white noise, possible futures running through his mind. Tonight, he’d see if one of those paths was more than a dead end.
He knocked again. Rustling footsteps then the door opened.
The woman who opened it looked like Katya, if you didn’t know her. She wore a flowing Gypsy dress, but no jewelry. Her shoes stained with arena dirt. She wore the same little touch of makeup she always did, but under it, her skin was colorless. It was her eyes that sent alarm jangling along his nerves. There was no spark in them, as if her spirit had been snuffed out.
He reached out a hand. “Katya, what is it?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped out, dodging his touch.
“You don’t lie well, hon. Are you sick?”
“I’m not.” Her lips attempted a smile, but her eyes didn’t bother. “Really, Cam, I’m fine. I appreciate getting out.”
He’d let it go… for now. “What would you like to eat?” He took her elbow and led the way to his rental car. “Know any good Transylvanian restaurants in Chicago?”
“Whatever you’d like is fine.”
Normally he wouldn’t step foot in one of those salad bar places, but if she wasn’t well, lighter fare would be better. He’d seen one on his way to the arena this weekend. “Well then, I’m really walking on the wild side tonight.” He opened the door and handed her gently in.
Inside the car was silent on the drive, though his thoughts screamed. He pulled into the parking lot and angled into a slot, leaving the engine running. Katya sat staring unseeing at the cinderblock wall of the House of Lettuce.
Seriously worried now, he hesitated. The engine idled. The wind chased paper around the parking lot. “Katya.”
Her start broke her stare. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?”
Katya wasn’t behind her eyes; she was somewhere else.
“You’re not hungry, are you?”
She gathered her purse from the floorboard. “Don’t be silly. Let’s go in.”
He put his hand over hers on the seat belt catch and shifted the car into reverse. He needed to lose weight anyway.
“Where are you going? You need to eat. Your diabetes—” She frowned at him, and for the first time tonight, he glimpsed his Katya.
He backed out. “Don’t worry about me. I had peanuts before I picked you up.”
“Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.”
They lapsed back to silence. He drove, not really caring where they went. Driving helped him think and maybe it would calm her enough to talk to him. There was something wrong; and he couldn’t fix it until he knew what it was.
What if it’s nothing you can fix? God, he hated that voice.
The clouds darkened, partially due to the sun setting behind them, partially due to the rain they held. He flipped on the lights and headed out of town. When the buildings and traffic were left behind and oat stubble fields bordered the road, he could stand the silence no more. “Tell me.” He held the wheel in his left hand and took hers with the other. It was cold. “Please don’t say, ‘I’m fine.’ You’re not.” He glanced from the road, put his hand under her chin, and brought her head around. “I’m worried about you. Don’t shut me out, Smitty.”
“Don’t call me that. I don’t deserve it.” She looked through the passenger window at the fields, as if wanting could transport her there.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
She drew in a long shaky breath. Her chin went to her chest and she closed her eyes. “I got a phone call. From my superior officer. A bomb hit our hospital. Three casualties. My roommate, my friend, is dead.”
He checked the rearview mirror and pulled off the road. When the car stopped, he threw it in park, and shut off the engine. Rain immediately obscured the windshield, fracturing light that bled down the glass. He reached over and gathered her in his arms. Thankfully, she came willingly. “Ah, Katya. I’m sorry.” He tucked her head under his chin and stroked her hair.
She didn’t cry, just lay her head against his chest and let herself be petted.
Turning, he leaned against the door and pulled her into his lap, her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, her head nestled under his chin.
It could have been her. His arms tightened. He pictured her in cammies, boots and a billed cap, her hair tucked up under it. He knew her. She’d have been in the middle of the action. If she’d been there, it would have been her.
When she whimpered and reached for her head, he forced his fist in her hair to loosen. He hugged her close; maybe more for himself than for her. He needed to feel her, to convince himself that she was here, not there. Safe.
He’d hoped that she’d slip into this lifestyle like she slipped into her Western boots—that she’d like walking around in his world and they’d continue their affair. He now saw that, to her, it was much more complicated than that. Here he’d been worried about ending his career, and she’d been trying to get back to one that could end with a body bag.
“What else?”
“That’s not enough?” she whispered.
“Why don’t you deserve to be called Smitty?”
Her chest hitched; he felt it in his. “Because I let them down. Murphy, Carol, Lieutenant Thibodaux, all of them.” She seemed to shrink in his arms.
“It’s not your fault. You can’t think this is your fault?”
“But I’m still here!” The desperation in her wail slapped the glass and raised the hair on his arms. She slid down on the seat, knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them.
He pressed his chest to her body, sheltering her, his arms encompassing as much of her as he could reach. He rocked her, humming a broken lullaby as the rain drummed on the roof.
Katya came awake all at once, as if an internal switch had flipped. She opened her eyes to a generic ceiling and a heavy weight across her chest. She realized she was in her bed, naked. With another internal switch-flip, it all came back—the bomb that exploded in Kandahar and the concussion when she got the phone call yesterday. Guilt splashed, staining the morning gray.
I’m calling Dr. Heinz today. I can’t go on like this.
Without moving, she scanned her hotel room. The weight on her chest was a blond hair-covered forearm. She looked left. Cam’s head lay on the pillow next to her.
She knew her meltdown had alarmed him. Hell, it had alarmed her. It pounced on her fully formed, a dark animal with bad intent and slashing claws. All she could do was huddle down and survive. She remembered Cam singing to her. A solid reality she clung to until blessed oblivion took her.
In sleep, he wore no Cool Hand Cahill mask. He looked like she imagined the innocent bull rider who’d begun his career so many years ago.
Thank God he’d been with her last night when the dark waters of shame closed over her head. She’d floundered, trying to stay afloat in an acid bath of guilt. He’d carried her inside, held her until she’d fallen asleep. Cam Cahill was a kind man. A good man. His tenderness washed through her pain, diluting it. Today she felt as though she’d washed up on the shore.
She leaned over and brushed her lips across his cheek. He didn’t open his eyes, but gathered her in his arms, a sound of contentment rumbling in his chest. His toasty warmth and spicy scent enveloped her. She took it in and released it with a sigh.
When he opened his washed blu
e eyes, the worry in them pierced her. “Feeling better this morning?”
She pushed worry to the back of her mind and ran her nails down his chest. “I’m not sure. Let me check…” She skimmed the skin of his ribs and traced the curve of his hip to where he lay turgid, but not yet hard. His penis jumped under her hand. “I’d say it’s getting better by the second.”
She lowered her head and kissed him, trying to express her gratitude.
He’d have none of her soft emotion. He seized her lips. His hands came up to cradle her head as he plundered her mouth. Demanding. Taking.
When she grasped his shaft, his moan vibrated against her tongue.
The emotions of last night hung in the room like ozone after a lightning strike. She wanted to get as far from that soul-sucking despair as possible. She didn’t want languid. She wanted raw. She wanted it now.
She arched her back, brushing her nipples against his chest, sending an electric current shooting south. She brushed the velvet skin on the head of his cock against herself. Instead of teasing him, she caught fire.
He sucked the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, and her muscles spasmed. He nibbled his way down her neck, and lower, until his lips met her needy breasts. She moaned when he rolled her nipples between his fingers.
Like a blast of heat, need rose in her, pushing back the dark waters of last night’s nightmare, banishing the whimpering victim she’d been. Strength surged from deep within. She remembered what, in her fear, she’d forgotten.
I am a warrior.
She put a hand to his shoulder, pushed, and he fell onto his back. She threw a leg over, caressing his hard length from her ankle to thigh as she slid across him. Twining her fingers with his, she pressed them on the pillow on either side of his head. She needed to be in control.
Her long hair cloaked them from all but their passion.
Holding his gaze, she lowered until he brushed the beginning of her. Legs quivering, she waited, watching him, letting the power build. She lowered her lips within a heartbeat of his. “Do you want me?” She breathed.
“Yes,” he ground out.
“Not yet.” She arched her back, offering him her breast.