The Crushing Depths

by Dani Pettrey

  He strode forward with purpose, not saying a word. Didn’t he realize . . . ?

  “Noah will fly us out of here straightaway if a medic doesn’t clear us,” she said.

  “Good thing I’m a certified paramedic, then,” he whispered.

  ELEVEN

  “Here we go,” Adam said, stepping into the medical bay. “Karl.” He lifted his chin as a very Scandinavian-looking man stepped out from behind a privacy curtain.

  “Hello.” He dipped his head in greeting. “I’m with Chase right now. He needs some sutures. Please, have a seat, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said. “I’m a certified medic myself. My partner has something going on with her back. I’ll examine her since you’re busy.” If having a male stranger examine her made Rissi uneasy, he’d take care of her. He had many times before—treated her back after Hank had lashed it up. His hands involuntarily curled into fists, his fingernails drilling into his palms. Surely she didn’t think of him as a stranger. It might have been a decade, but he prayed she didn’t view him that way.

  “Okay.” Karl nodded, pointing to the white metal cabinet. “You should find anything you might need in there. Just be sure to fill out an inventory form for anything you use, so I can manage my supplies.”

  “Will do.” Mason nodded. “Thank you.”

  Karl ducked back behind the curtain.

  A moment later, Chase grunted. Apparently suture time had begun.

  Adam jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to give y’all some privacy. I’ll be back around. Have Karl radio me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” Rissi said.

  “Shall we?” Mason asked.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  “Uh-huh. Up on the table.” He patted the white-paper-covered exam table.

  “This really isn’t necessary.” She inched her way toward the table as slowly as he’d ever seen anyone move.

  “It’s me or Karl,” he whispered.

  She exhaled. “You.”

  “All righty, then.” He patted the table, and the thin paper crinkled beneath his hand.

  She hopped up, grimacing as she sat.

  The paper absorbed moisture from her still-damp clothes. As soon as they were done here, they needed to hit the platform store and grab some dry clothes. No way he was having her spend however long their investigation took in cold, wet clothes.

  “Okay,” he said, riffling through the drawers underneath the exam table.

  He found what he was looking for, tugged the gown out, and shut the metal drawer with a clang.

  Rissi arched a brow, casting her gaze to the baby blue material clutched in his hand.

  Her brilliant blue eyes narrowed. “What’s that for?”

  “For you.” He handed it to her. “I’m going to need you to remove your shirt, so I can see what you did to your back. I see blood on your top.” He wasn’t surprised the others had missed it. The blood blended into the dark green shirt. But he hadn’t overlooked it. “I’ll step out and pull the privacy curtain closed. Put the gown on, opening in the back.”

  “Is this really—”

  “Necessary? Yes,” he said before she could argue further.

  “Mason . . . I . . .”

  “It’s okay,” he said softly, knowing her concern. “I’ve seen your back before.”

  Her embarrassment was palpable. But there was nothing to be embarrassed about. If anything, it was physical evidence of her bravery and strength.

  She bit her bottom lip, and her eyes filled with . . . ? He couldn’t place it, but suddenly he felt the room fading. It was just the two of them again in the hidden crawl space she’d found behind the closet in her room at the children’s home. They’d spent so much time there.

  His heart hadn’t stopped thwacking since the crash. The terror at the thought of losing her again after just finding her had choked the breath from his lungs.

  He caught her gaze. She was anxious. “I promise it’ll be quick,” he said. “I’m just worried you might have injured something internally. I at least want to check your back and your lungs.”

  Her jaw shifted, which meant she was deliberating.

  He waited for her answer, praying she’d say yes. She needed to be examined and have any injuries tended to.

  “All right,” she relented.

  “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

  “I know.”

  He tugged the privacy curtain, the rings clinking along the track as he pulled it closed.

  So many memories and emotions tracked through him.

  Rustling sounded behind him as he took a protective stance in parade rest—his active-duty training embedded in him, for the better. He’d been an angry teen. Angry at God for taking his family away. Angry at his aunt and uncle for opting to put him into the system rather than raise him as his parents’ will had stipulated. Angry that good people, beautiful people—inside and out—like Rissi got abused by men like Hank Willis.

  Thankfully, the Coast Guard had given him direction and purpose and rules he wanted to follow because they were the right thing to do. He still carried hurt over the loss of his parents. He didn’t think that would ever fully go away, but the anger had simmered. Maybe he was finally in a place where he could be the man Rissi deserved him to be.

  Paper crinkled beneath her movement.

  She grunted behind the curtain. He’d seen evidence of some sort of wound on her upper back and a tenderness on her lower-right back. Those injuries needed to be addressed.

  His hands clenched into fists. Her back.

  Memories of trying to help heal the belt lashes Hank had laid across her back that summer day raced through his mind. It had been the worst damage Hank had ever wreaked upon sweet Rissi. Her wounds had been raw and sore. Open flesh and streaks of blood.

  He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory and swallowed the thickness gripping his throat. Earlier that day, Rissi had confided in one of the women on staff, a woman she thought she could trust. But she couldn’t have been more wrong. Hank’s fury, once unleashed, possessed an ugly, evil power that was rarely quenched. It was a wonder he’d been able to distract Hank at all. Only after he took a swing at Hank did the monster shift his fury to him, letting Rissi escape.

  His chest squeezed. Seeing such a precious girl suffer at the hands of evil had left him raw.

  “Ready,” she said a moment later, her voice more tentative than he’d heard it since his arrival.

  TWELVE

  Please, Father, direct me to see where Rissi is hurt and guide me in how to best help her.

  Mason gripped the edge of the curtain and slipped behind it, looking over his shoulder to make sure Rissi had full privacy coverage in the event Karl and Chase finished up before them.

  His gaze tracked over the white tile floor, across a black smudge mark from a boot, and then up the base of the table and finally fixed on Rissi’s face.

  She blinked, the usual fire in her eyes only half-stirred. Was she nervous about him? He’d taken care of her many times before, but it’d been years.

  She swung her legs out and back in.

  He reached for the blood-pressure cuff. “Am I making you uneasy?” That’s the last thing he’d want her to feel around him.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “May I?” he asked, reaching for her arm.

  She nodded, stretching her arm out.

  He wrapped the cuff around her upper arm. “That feel all right?”

  “Yep.” She nodded, her fingers tapping the table as she nibbled her bottom lip.

  Why was he making her so nervous? He’d seen her back before, and while tentative, she’d never been nervous in his presence before. She’d trusted him. Had time erased that bond?

  He prayed not.

  He believed, or had believed, that nothing—no amount of time or space—could damage their bond. But what if he was wrong?

  A weight sank in his g
ut.

  “I think you have to press that Start button,” she said, pointing at the blood-pressure machine cradled in his palm.

  “Right. Yeah.” Smooth, Rogers. Real smooth.

  He pressed the button, shaking off his woolgathering—as his mom used to call his introspective daydreams before she was taken from this world. The machine beeped, and air streamed up the navy blue tube, and the cuff started inflating.

  For being only six at the time of his parents’ deaths, he still thought of his folks often. Of the happy memories he had of them and of the very worst—the crash that took both of their lives and his unborn baby brother’s.

  Everyone he loved and held dear, or at least everyone who’d actually loved him, was ripped from his life right in front of him. One minute life was good, then a freak flash flood resulted in a watery tomb for all but him. He was rescued. Or at least a part of him was.

  The carefree child he’d been died that day, vanished as quickly as the roaring waters had flipped their car into an arroyo while they were on vacation in New Mexico. None of them had seen it coming. In a blink of an eye his family was gone.

  The monotone beep signaled Rissi’s blood pressure reading was done.

  He looked at the panel. “One-forty over eighty-seven. It’s higher than I like, but it’s been a rough day. Let’s get this off of you.” He pulled the Velcro apart with a scratchy sucking sound.

  He grabbed the pulse oximeter. “May I?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

  She nodded. He slipped the reader on her finger, which was still ghost-white and puckered.

  “We need to get you warmed up. And in dry clothes.”

  “Agreed for both of us.”

  Mason looked around the space.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “A blanket for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. My clothes are drying.”

  He pulled off the finger monitor. “Pulse is sixty-eight. Good. All your vitals look good.” He grabbed the stethoscope he’d hung around his neck and said, “I’m just going to take a quick listen.”

  She took a sharp intake of breath.

  Trying to be as respectful as possible, he pressed the stethoscope to her chest, listening to her heartbeat. He moved the stethoscope over a few inches. Everything sounded good.

  He straightened. “I’m going to need to listen to your lungs and examine your back.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, her fingers once again drumming on the table, the paper crinkling beneath her delicate touch. Stepping around to the side of the exam table, he slipped the stethoscope through the gaps in the tied-back gown.

  Her back flexed.

  She was tender, but no sense pointing out the obvious.

  “Okay, deep breath.” He listened. “Good.” He moved the stethoscope over an inch. “One more . . . Good. Everything sounds good.”

  “So we’re done?” She shifted forward.

  “Not quite yet.” He laid a gentle hand on her uninjured shoulder. “I need to examine your back.”

  “It’s fine,” she answered far too fast.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  She winced and flinched every time something came in contact with the area. She needed treatment.

  “I’m feeling better already.”

  “The grimace on your face says otherwise. If you’d prefer Karl examine you, I can—”

  “No.” She grabbed his hand before he even took a step in that direction. “Go ahead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Here we go.” He untied the two knots she’d fashioned with the gown’s strings. The fabric slipped forward.

  Rissi clutched the gown to her chest, fastening it in place. She wore a purple sports bra, but he could work around that. A seeping gash near her right shoulder blade was deep enough to need stitches.

  His gaze dropped from her shoulders to the center of her back, and his breath lodged in his throat.

  Scars. So many of them.

  He remembered bandaging some of those scars when the wounds had been raw. But a cluster he hadn’t seen before comprised the center of her back. Heat burned through his limbs. His jaw clenched. What had Hank done to her after he’d aged out?

  His muscles taut, he balled his hands at his sides.

  “Does it . . . look okay?” she asked.

  That’s why she was anxious about him examining her. She didn’t want him seeing those scars.

  “Yeah, you’ve got a gash worthy of stitches near your right shoulder blade”—he surveyed her lower back—“and some nasty bruising along the right side of your rib cage.”

  “Great.”

  “On the plus side,” he said, hoping to bring some levity to her, “it’ll match your sports bra.”

  She chuckled a little, and the sweet sound, however guarded it might be, resonated in his soul.

  But the pleasure rapidly faded as he focused on the bruises. He needed to press on the area, to see if any ribs were broken. “Okay. I’m going to apply some pressure, but I’ll go as gently and as quickly as I can,” he said, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. This was going to hurt. She didn’t need an added jolt of cold. “You ready?”

  She clutched the edge of the exam table. “Go for it.”

  He positioned himself at her nine. “All right, here we go.” He slid his right hand along the right side of her rib cage and his left hand along her back, pressing from top to bottom in rapid fashion.

  She remained remarkably still until he hit the third rib from the bottom.

  She stiffened on a jagged inhale.

  “Got it,” he said. “Hang in there for me.” The words left his mouth just as they had all the times he’d bandaged the wounds Hank had inflicted on her.

  Justice reigned the day that evil man died, though a heart attack seemed too good for him. He should have stood trial for his crimes against kids rather than dying quickly in his cell while awaiting it. But Mason took solace in the fact that, while Hank didn’t face men in judgment, he certainly had to face God for what he’d done.

  “You’re doing great. Just a few more minutes. I’ve got you.”

  “This is starting to sound eerily familiar.” Her words were light, but the emotion behind them hung thick in the air.

  They’d spent so much time like this after Hank’s tirades. But they weren’t in the crawl space anymore. They were free, and Rissi was an even stronger woman. He was still in awe of her.

  “Almost done,” he said, feeling awful that he hadn’t thought about how his tending her might resurrect memories, but it had in them both. “I’ve got to press harder on this rib, to be sure it’s not fractured or splintered. I’ll go as quick as I can. Take a few breaths in and out of your mouth. It’ll be over soon.”

  She braced her hands on either side of the exam table, and he ran his finger along the rib in question. “Here we go.” He pushed hard, following the rib down, really hoping he didn’t feel a break.

  He lifted his hand. “It’s not broken.”

  She let out a pent-up burst of air. “Great. That would have been really inconvenient.”

  “Inconvenient?” Had she seriously just said that?

  “Noah would have insisted I head back to the ER and be treated.”

  He tilted his head. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It is when we’ve got an investigation before us.”

  A smile tickled his lips.

  She cocked her head. “What?”

  “You know most women don’t talk that way, let alone think that way.”

  Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Mason Rogers, are you suggesting that only men are strong and focused?”

  He held his hands up. “Not in the least. I should have said most people don’t talk that way. They have a sense of self-preservation.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyelashes did that quick flutter thing.

  He still didn’t understand how she did it, but when she did it, he knew he was in t
he middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized he’d walked into. “You’re talking to me about self-preservation.” She released a laugh.

  He planted his hand on the edge of the exam table before she could hop off. “Don’t try to turn the tables on me, and you most certainly don’t need to be getting off this table.”

  “And why not? You said yourself the rib’s not broken.” She shimmied to the end of the table, her still-damp jeans chafing against his thumb. He placed his left hand on the other side of her, effectively caging her in.

  She dipped her head, her big, beautiful blue eyes staring up at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know you could probably knock out of my hold with little to zero effort, but—”

  “Could probably?”

  He shook his head on a pent-up exhale. “There isn’t much we can do with that rib besides your icing it and taking some painkillers, but the cut near your right shoulder blade needs some stitches. The one along your waist just needs bandaging.”

  She released a belabored huff, the hair framing her face fluttering. “Is all that—”

  “Yes,” he said, interrupting her before any further argument could be uttered on her part. “It’s necessary.” He grabbed the supplies from the cabinet, noting them on the inventory sheet, and returned to her. He laid out the supplies on the silver tray-table he rolled to her side.

  “Let’s start by cleaning out the upper wound and taking care of the stitches.”

  She nodded, and he got that part over with quickly. She never flinched.

  He hesitated as he moved to the smaller cut near her waist and the area around her bruised rib.

  “It’s okay,” she said, placing her hand over his at her side.

  He warmed at her touch and proceeded to clean and bandage the smaller wound. He pulled an ice pack for her bruised rib out of a dorm-size fridge and freezer beside the supply cabinet.

  “All done, kid,” he said, backing away. He’d always called her that at the children’s home, but they weren’t kids anymore. Actually, neither had been since a very young age. He linked his arms across his chest, studying the gorgeous, strong, and vibrant woman before him. She was as fierce as ever, but now she embraced it, embraced who she was, rather than hiding herself from the world. She was real with her team. She trusted them. And she still trusted him.