“There’s no way someone could have planted anything there.” Realization came with a start. “Except at the prison.” She and Mace had had to check their belongings in a locker. Anyone with the code could have gotten to her jacket.
Painstakingly, she went through every inch of the jacket and found what she was looking for embedded in a seam. The device was state-of-the-art.
Mace took it and squashed it beneath his heel.
Laurel shuddered at what her carelessness had brought to her newfound family.
“If the Collective’s been tracking us since our visit to the prison,” Mace said, “then they know the location of the safe house.”
“We’ll find another one,” Shelley promised and gripped Laurel’s hand.
“That won’t be necessary,” Mace said. “I’ll take her to my cabin.”
* * *
Mace felt more than saw the surprised glances Shelley and Jake exchanged. It was well-known at S&J that he never invited people, even friends, to his cabin. Set deep within the Georgia woods, it was his haven, his refuge, his sanctuary.
The apartment in town was a convenience. The cabin was home.
Within ten minutes, he and Laurel were on their way, leaving the trappings of civilization behind with every mile.
What would Laurel think of the cabin? Would she be put off by the rustic atmosphere, the plain furnishings, the lack of neighbors?
Impatient with his thoughts, he pulled up to a mom-and-pop store not far from his place. After a quick shopping trip, he drove the last few miles to the cabin. There, he hefted the box of supplies he’d bought. Food, toilet paper and an extra-large bag of dog food.
Sammy jumped out of the truck, sniffed the ground and then ran around the cabin. When he returned, he gave a loud bark which Mace took as approval of the new digs.
Laurel had said little on the trip to the cabin.
He knew what was eating her. Guilt left nasty teeth marks, and right now they were all over her, chewing their way into her heart. He was dealing with his own guilt fest as well, unable to shake the suspicion that by asking Tony to gather information on the Collective, he’d effectively signed the man’s death warrant.
There was a saying on the street: snitches get stitches. What had happened to Tony proved it.
She carried her bag into the cabin. “Where do you want me?”
He pointed down the hall. “Second room on the left. It’s got its own bathroom.”
With Sammy bringing up the rear, she walked down the hallway.
Mace heard the bedroom door shut. He’d give her time to deal with her feelings. Not too much time, though. It was one thing to accept guilt, another to wallow in it.
Though they’d had a meal at Shelley and Caleb’s home, Mace knew that the last hours had taken a lot out of Laurel. With that in mind, he heated up a can of soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches.
He knocked on her door. “Soup’s on.”
“Not hungry.”
He pushed open the door. “Too bad. You need to eat.”
“You can’t know what I need.”
“Okay,” he agreed easily. “But Sammy needs to eat.”
Another wave of guilt chased across her face. “Of course. What was I thinking...?”
“You weren’t thinking. You don’t want to eat, then we work.”
“Work?”
“You heard me. Work.” He gave her shirt and slacks a disparaging look. “Change into something you can move in and meet me in the basement.”
He’d intrigued her. He saw that. Better she be curious than steeped in guilt. “Like I said, we’ve got work to do. You have five minutes.” He snapped his fingers. “C’mon, Sammy. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Sammy looked to Laurel. “Go on, boy,” she said.
Mace hadn’t liked coming down on her that way, but he’d had to pull her out of the quagmire of guilt into which she’d fallen.
Guilt didn’t solve anything. He ought to know.
THIRTEEN
Laurel looked around the basement that had been turned into a professionally equipped workout room. Weights, cardio machines and everything in between had been carefully selected and placed. There was even a Jacuzzi to ease tired muscles at the end of a workout.
“This is really something,” she said.
“It took a while to put together, but I knew what I wanted. I worked on it a bit at a time, in between jobs and when I could afford it. It suits me.”
At one time, she’d owned the gym. She’d worked out alongside men who outweighed her by a hundred or more pounds and had held her own. Now, on the days when the pain had a stranglehold on her, she could barely lift her arm over her head.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” His voice unexpectedly softened. “I know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re in so much pain on some days that you can barely think straight. That even the smallest movement causes you to want to scream in agony. I know,” he repeated. “I saw it the first time we met. The way you held your arm close, as though you couldn’t bear to move it even an inch. What have you done for it?”
“You name it, I’ve tried it.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice as she thought of the brutal rehab she’d endured to restore full motion in her arm and shoulder.
Mace planted his hands on his hips. “Name it.”
“Name what?”
“Your pain. Give it a name. Talk to it. Yell at it. Tell it that you’re in charge, not it.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Not so you’d notice.” His grin was a flash of white teeth.
“You want me to name my pain and that’s supposed to make it all go away.” She nearly rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of it.
“No. It won’t go away. Not at first. Maybe never. But you can give it a name. Talk to it. Ask it why it’s doing this to you.”
“Look, Mace, you’re a good guy, but—”
“I’m off my rocker,” he finished the sentence for her.
“Something like that.”
“Do you know how I met Jake?”
The change of subject took her by surprise. “Overseas, I guess. When you were both serving.”
“Wrong. We met in rehab.”
“Oh.”
“Jake came home with a busted-up leg. He could barely walk. It still gives him fits at times, but he’s worked through it for the most part.”
“And you?”
“I came home with a busted-up body.” His voice darkened, as did the look in his eyes.
What did that mean?
“I spent nine months in a prison camp. It was...rough.”
Images too horrible to contemplate swirled through her mind. Terrorists bragged about how they broke American soldiers with their inhumane treatment. “Look, we don’t have to talk about this. Not now.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to share all the details with you. Just know that I have some experience with pain.” The wry twist of his lips underscored what must have been a massive understatement.
“I’m sorry.” She winced at the total inadequacy of the words. She knew a sudden longing to reach out, to touch him, to wipe away the memories of what he’d endured.
“Don’t be. I made it through. But I had to learn to deal with it. It was that or go crazy. So I named the pain. I yelled at it. I begged it to stop. Finally, I accepted it.”
Intrigued despite herself, she leaned forward. “What did you call it?”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph?”
“After my uncle Ralph. Great-uncle, to be precise. He was my mama’s uncle. We used to go visit his place in Tennessee when my brother and I were kids. He had a cabin in the Great Smokies. It had running water, but that was about it.”
“So
why’d you name your pain after him?”
“Uncle Ralph could be a scary dude. He liked to take out his false teeth and clack them at us.”
“You’re making that up.” The whole thing was too ridiculous to be true.
Mace put his hand to his brow and gave a smart salute. “Scout’s honor. Uncle Ralph took out his teeth and made this clickety-clack noise at my brother and me. Scared my brother half to death. I was made of sterner stuff and actually touched them one time when Uncle Ralph took them out.”
“What happened?”
“They near bit my finger off. Uncle Ralph laughed so hard that his toupee fell off.”
“Okay. Now I know you’re making it up.”
“Well, maybe the part about the toupee.”
“And the teeth?”
“The teeth were real.”
They were straying from the subject, and she honestly wanted to know how he’d learned to live with the pain by giving it a name.
“Back to naming your pain. Did it help?”
“Not at first. It turns out that Ralph and I had this kind of love-hate relationship, heavy on the hate. But when I started talking to him...it... I learned I could control the pain. Giving it a name took away some of its power.”
“You really talked to Ralph?”
“The pain. Not my uncle. He was long gone by then. I told Ralph that he was kicking my butt, and that I was tired of it. Then I told him it was my turn.”
“Did he answer?” Despite her skepticism, she found that she really wanted to know.
“You could say that. He kicked my butt some more. Then he started backing off. Just a little, but enough that I could get through the exercises without breaking down and crying like a baby.”
“Did you do that whole pain scale thing,” she asked, “like they have you do in PT?”
“Yeah. When I got back to the States, I did my share of PT. Like I said, that’s where Jake and I met. Turns out we’d both named our pain. It’s not real common, but it’s gaining in popularity among therapists.” Mace sent her a quizzical look. “What about it? Ready to give your pain a name?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “Bob.”
“Bob? Someone in particular or you just don’t like the name?”
“Drill sergeant. He made my life miserable for six straight weeks. Yelled at me so loud that I was sure my eardrums were going to burst. Seems only fitting that I should give him some of his own back and yell at him.”
Though all the sergeants had made life a misery for recruits, most had done so with the intent of turning them into soldiers. Robert “Bob” Chastain had had a different agenda: he’d liked inflicting as much punishment on the young men and women unfortunate enough to be assigned to his special brand of training.
He’d derived pleasure from humiliating them in front of the other recruits. He’d taken extra pleasure in singling out the two lone females, Laurel and Sarah. Whatever he required of the male recruits, he doubled—even quadrupled—for the females. In the end, Sarah hadn’t been able to take it and had been discharged from the Army.
Mace drew her back to the present. “I’m guessing you do some kind of rotator cuff exercises.”
She made a face. “You guessed right.” She looked down at her right arm, folded protectively against her chest. “When things get bad, I know it’s because I haven’t exercised it enough. Trouble is, doing the therapy feels like I’m putting my shoulder through a shredder.”
“Got it. We’ll take it easy.”
“We? You’re not a therapist.”
“I’ve been through enough therapy that I have everything but the shingle to hang on my door.”
“I’m not sure.” She avoided his gaze. “Having a colleague hear me cry like a baby isn’t exactly high on my bucket list.” She’d humiliated herself enough at PT by breaking down in tears when the pain had grown unbearable.
“You don’t think I’ve done my share of the bawling-like-a-baby thing?”
She considered the supremely fit man who looked like he’d never shed a tear in his life. “It’s hard to picture,” she said at last.
“I know what it is to hurt so bad that you don’t think you can take another breath.” He reached for her hand, squeezed gently. “I’ll help you. If it gets too much, you can quit.”
“I’m not a quitter,” she said, each syllable ground through her teeth like she was chewing cut glass.
“I didn’t think you were. Drop your arm. Let it hang loose.”
She did as he instructed. Immediately a hiss of pain buzzed through the air. She bit down on her tongue in a futile effort to control the wave of agony that rolled through her.
“Okay,” Mace said. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Raise your arm above your head and then reach as far as you can. Pretend you’re reaching for the stars.”
Laurel did as he instructed. Misery screamed through her shoulder. Only the knowledge that Mace was there to witness it enabled her to suck it up and keep stretching.
She wasn’t certain how she felt that Mace had zeroed in on her pain. Part of her was annoyed that she’d failed to hide the agony that her shoulder and arm caused. She didn’t like that he’d read her so easily. Another part was touched by his concern.
“Enough,” he said when she could no longer hold back a groan.
She nearly wept with relief.
* * *
Mace kept his comments to a minimum. He felt every shaft of pain Laurel endured as though it were his own as she struggled to complete the exercises. She was a proud woman who would refuse sympathy just as he had refused the overtures on the part of his buddies who’d witnessed his struggles.
Understanding didn’t mean it was easy for him to watch her push herself to a point past exhaustion. If he could have, he’d have taken the pain from her, but that wasn’t possible, and so he clenched his jaw with every whimper she gave.
You can do it. The words never made it to his lips. Instead, he kept them locked inside, willing her to find the strength she needed. Surviving recovery was as much mental as physical.
When she completed the final set, she turned to him with a smile that was more a grimace. “Done. Three sets, as instructed.”
“Congratulations.”
Her shoulders drooped. “Thanks. I wish I felt like I was making progress.”
“You are. You just can’t see it.”
She slumped onto a bench, braced her hands on her knees and let her head droop.
He offered a hand to help her up. Awareness thrummed between them at the casual contact. Without making more of the gesture than it warranted, he removed his hand, stuffed it in his pocket.
Laurel, too, had looked shaken at the touch. “After I get my breath back, I’ll start again.”
“You don’t have—”
She gave him a look that told him to back off.
He did.
When he judged her ready to start again, he hitched his chin at the equipment. Compassion warred with respect as he watched her push herself beyond her limits.
She did a set.
Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, above her lip, down her shirt.
“Yell,” Mace ordered. “Tell Bob to back off. Tell him he’s not wanted here.”
Laurel yelled. And yelled some more.
By the time she’d finished, she’d managed another set.
Mace gave her a thumbs-up. “What’s your pain number, between one and ten?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Come on, soldier. Tell me the real number.”
“Eight.” She said it with a grudging tone. “Maybe seven and a half.”
“Not bad. How’s that compare to other days?”
“Better.” The admission cost her. He saw it in the tightening of her lips. “Naming the pain...it might have
helped.” She flushed.
He quirked a brow. “Might have?”
“Might have.”
“You’ll be hurting soon.”
“What’s this will be stuff?”
“Okay. You’re hurting. Take a breather. Then we do it again. Of course, if you’d prefer to quit...” He shrugged as though it made no difference to him either way.
“You don’t play fair.”
“No, I don’t. But then neither does Bob.”
Mace put Laurel through her paces. Every time she flinched, every time she hissed out a pain-filled breath, he wanted to stop, to tell her they’d done enough, but the determination in her face, the fire in her eyes, told him she needed this. More, wanted it.
The lady was forged in steel. He knew too well the pain he was putting her through, knew she had to be screaming at him inside her head, but she didn’t say anything, other than to yell at Bob at the top of her lungs.
When he judged she’d done as much as she could, probably more than she should, he called a halt. “Enough.”
Laurel sank to the floor. If he hadn’t been there, she’d have probably been in tears at the end of the session. As it was, she only breathed deeply, her exhales coming in labored pants.
“What’s the number now?” he asked.
She appeared to think about it. “Nine. It went up.” The querulous tone had him smiling.
“That’s good. It means you worked through it and kept on going. Maybe you should thank Bob.”
“Thank him?”
“Tell him that he did a good job of letting you know when you’d had enough.”
“Enough was thirty minutes ago.” She made a face at him.
Ordinarily, he would have grinned, but not this time. He was too aware of her and how she made him feel. “It also lets you know that you’re still alive. Still kicking.”
“Is that what Ralph did for you?”
Mace didn’t need to think about it. “Ralph was there when I needed him.”
“And sometimes when you didn’t?”
He inclined his head. “And sometimes when I didn’t.”
“You really think I should thank Bob?”
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