SEAL of My Dreams
Page 40
She rubbed her hand on the glass door that led out to the back terrace as if that could help her see through the snow. She started a little, blinked, then stared a little harder as she spotted something—someone—moving through the blowing snow.
A mirage. A fantastic, tall mirage, his jungle print cammies cutting a path through the white stuff. As he got closer, she saw the blood and dirt and once he came close enough, paint on his face.
She was the one who remained frozen because was so sure this was a dream. The best kind.
And then, after what seemed like hours, he was at the glass door. He saw her, cocked his head as if waiting for her to realize this was all very real and finally—finally—he opened the door and stepped inside.
She took several steps back to let him in. Cold air enveloped her, refreshing, like some kind of renewal. And then he shut the door behind him and said, “Hey.”
“You look—”
“Wet,” he finished and she laughed softly, not wanting to break the spell. She reached up instead and uncovered his head first, the wool cap giving way to reveal the ever present green bandanna he wrapped his hair in every time he was on a mission. “I walked ten miles in the snow, uphill. And don’t think this kid will ever hear the end of it.”
His different color eyes stood out in stark contrast to his very tanned skin. She reached out and stroked his cheek, just to make sure he was real. “You just got in?”
“About an hour ago. Roads are impassable.”
“Not for you.”
“Not for you,” he countered as her fingers skittered over the buttons on his jacket before skimming the icy material off him, letting it falls to the floor.
He stood patiently, this familiar act becoming something of a ritual between them. It was like she had to catalogue everything when he came back—every smile, every scratch—and he let her, without complaint.
Her pace quickened as she touched the cold skin on his biceps. She needed to get him warm, wanted him skin to skin with her. At this moment, that was her only mission and the only one that mattered.
She pulled the shirt over his head next, his dogtags clinking and coming to rest on his bare chest, and saw where the blood had come from. The gauze that covered his size was large, but clean.
“It’s nothing,” he told her and she didn’t press even as she continued to memorize the other, numerous bruises and scrapes littering his upper body. He wore them as if they were nothing. He bent and took off his boots, but only because she couldn’t. And then she helped him off with his pants next—he eased them off and laid them on a chair carefully because they were heavy with some of his gear.
“Rough trip home?”
“Not so bad,” he said.
“Why are there chicken feathers coming out of your pocket?”
“Just be grateful the walk home in the storm washed away the smell.”
“Most of it,” she teased.
“Fuck, you look beautiful,” he murmured, a hand on her swollen belly.
“Big.”
“Gorgeous,” he corrected, and he meant it.
“Let me clean you off,” she murmured. “Come on.”
He followed her to the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bathtub while she wet a washcloth and wiped the paint and dirt from his face gently, like she was uncovering the real him again, like she did every time he came back.
It would never be that easy—coming home rarely was for these men, she’d learned—but this helped connect them again.
He let her finish with his face and neck, both knowing he needed more than a washcloth, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d stripped completely before he sat down and it was warm enough to where he’d stopped shivering.
“Thanks,” he said when she was done, and she cupped his clean face in her hands as time dropped away and it was their first time together on the plane or the second in Africa before things went bad and it all blended together in a wonderful way. Their history.
He made her sentimental; she’d never been that way before. “Why don’t you take a nice, hot shower and then—”
“Later,” he said, the way she’d hoped he would before standing and pulling her close.
And then she couldn’t wait—had never wanted anyone more. No words were necessary—he was on her the way he’d been from day one. Logistics were of course trickier but the man and his body seemed to bend in ways that were superhuman. Chris’s hands were weapons all their own—the fact that they roamed her body with such gentle and purposeful need made it all the better. And when he took her, all was right in the world again. His mouth covered her skin, his kisses hot against her neck as he trailed his tongue in a way that made her squirm with pleasure. She exploded, then melted and he was far from done.
She hadn’t known how badly she’d needed this. Beyond the sex, she’d simply needed to be in his arms.
Jamie held him the way she always did, an embrace that had a meaning all its own. Her touch had always said more than she’d allowed herself to verbalize, especially in the beginning. She was different now, but he still relied on the old ways to reconnect.
Coming back was hard. He felt different—was different—but this was the same, with Jamie’s soft skin and the scents that were uniquely hers, the way she moaned under his touch. The way she let go like she never had with anyone, that was all his. Her nails scored his shoulders as he shuddered against her, finally letting himself go after making sure she was more than satisfied.
You’re home, he told himself. In more ways than one, in Jamie’s arms, he was.
Chris massaged Jamie’s belly as they lay there, naked, sated. It was Christmas morning now, but she didn’t mention that, or his birthday, because neither were particularly happy memories.
Today, with them all together, they’d try to change that. But his mind was somewhere else, his hand splayed out now like he was feeling the shape of the baby inside of her.
“Can you turn him?” she asked.
“It’s going to hurt you if I try, Chere. What about just going to the hospital?”
“You would try with any other random woman, but not me?” she asked and then narrowed her eyes. “And why aren’t I in labor?” Why doesn’t your crazy labor mojo work on me?”
“Hush, bebe,” he told her with a smile, bent his head to her belly and began to sing—it was a lullaby in Cajun French he’d sung to her belly before, but this time it was all for the little boy. He held his hands so they hovered just above her bared skin in a Rieke formation, like he’d told her his momma taught him when she was a midwife.
She closed her eyes and listened to his voice as everything flashed in her mind. Their first meeting, the downed plane where this baby boy was conceived, against all odds, and they’d survived despite all of it. The hospital in Djibouti where she’d been scared to see him again. The school in Brooklyn where he’d saved her and PJ in a standoff with a killer, ending the nightmare they’d been living with since they were young.
Everything had worked out so well, despite the many times she’d thought they never, ever would. She had to believe now, too, because everything Chris did seemed to be touched by a certain kind of magic she’d never known existed.
All she needed to do was believe. Concentrate. Felt Chris begin the actual manipulating of her belly as the life inside of her began to shift.
It hurt. The pain was almost to the point of unbearable. But she squeezed her eyes tight and she dealt with the pain and she just breathed. Because, in the end, that’s what life was really all about—breathing and holding on.
She was doing both.
“Jamie, it’s okay—you can open your eyes.”
“Did it work?” she asked.
“I think so. His head is here.” He put her hand on her exposed skin and she felt the bump, where it was supposed to be. Except now, there was a lot of pressure she felt. “That’s normal.”
“Normal, but not exactly fun.”
“It’s going to happen any time now, J
amie.”
“Let’s try to get through Christmas first. Your dad cooked so much and Nick brought in the tree,” she said. “I hope that’s okay. I just thought -”
“It’s more than okay.”
There was a knock at the outer door, and Jamie slid a shirt on as Chris pulled on sweats and padded to answer it. She was surprised they’d waited this long to check—and she heard Saint’s voice in the background as well.
Chris hadn’t walked here alone.
“Wait a minute, you mean the one woman not affected by your baby mojo crap is your own wife?” Jake was demanding as she walked into the other room. He pointed to her. “She’s like a hundred years pregnant for Christsakes. Help her.”
“Jake, leave him alone,” Isabelle told him, took his hand. “And as long as we’re not in any rush to labor, I have some news.”
“Oh my God,” Jamie said before Isabelle could speak again and she and Kaylee were hugging her, because they just simply knew.
“‘Bout time,” Chris told Jake, who snorted, but the pride was evident in his brother’s face. Nick’s eyes were wet, his voice rough when he said, “That’s good stuff, man. Really good.”
Kenny’s voice boomed out, “And I, for one, can’t wait for payback. Because, my boys, you are going to be her bitch for many, many years to come.”
Chapter Six
It was the nightmare again, but even though it was as scary as ever, it soon turned around. Because Chris was there, right there next to her, with his rifle and his sniping magic and he was saving the day . . . saving her . . .
“Can you please breathe?”
A voice—Chris’s voice, in her dream. She turned and saw him, and that’s when the contraction hit.
“You’ve been in labor for half an hour,” he said.
“I guess this is some kind of delayed reaction,” she grumbled after the worst of the pain hit her.
Chris wasn’t listening, instead rummaged through the black doctor’s bag his team had brought him as a gag gift. Of course, that was before they’d realized that his delivering of babies was more than a one-time thing.
It was Christmas Day and Chris’s birthday, too. She’d come in here to rest before dinner and was now in full-blown labor if the look on Chris’s face was any indication after he did a quick check.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Jake said he’d get us to the hospital if we need to go—he’s got a truck with chains and he and Nick are plowing now, just in case.”
“Good. That will help with the karma,” she murmured.
“You’ve also got me.”
She opened her eyes and saw the man the brothers called doc standing by the bedside.
“I owed him one.” He nodded in Chris’s direction. As she watched, he set up a portable fetal monitor and ultrasound.
“So far, it’s all looking good. He’s not in any distress, and he stayed turned,” doc said. “Are you going to deliver your baby now?”
Chris cocked his head at her and she smiled. “Go ahead. Don’t break your record now.”
In the end, Chris wouldn’t be able to say he remembered much. As usual, it was a blur of making sure mom and baby were both okay during what became an almost frighteningly fast birth. Jamie had some choice words for him as she couldn’t take much in the way of pain meds since she was so close, but for the most part, she was stoic.
He and Isabelle and Doc worked together to make it as stress free as they could. And when the time came, he called Jake and Nick in, because, in cases like this, they were typically his wingmen, the ones who would hold and clean the baby while Chris attended to the mom.
He didn’t see a reason to change things now. And when his boy was delivered and took his first breath and then howled, he put him on Jamie’s chest for a few moments and passed the baby to Jake first. Watched for a few seconds as his brother cradled his nephew gently, cleaned him and checked him with a quick, silent efficiency Chris had always admired, but never more so than now.
“He’s pretty damned perfect,” Jake said, his voice rough with emotion. He passed the baby to Nick who teared up but didn’t say a word, just kissed the baby on the forehead and smiled before bringing him back to Jamie.
Yeah, things were exactly the way they should be.
“She looks good,” Doc told Chris when all was said and done, and everyone left them alone for a few minutes.
“You have to bring your dad in,” she told him.
“You won’t see that baby again tonight.”
She laughed softly as the baby snored against her. “Love you.”
“Love you,” he murmured back.
“Guess you have to share your birthday with Christmas and your son,” she pointed out.
“Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.
Kenny held his grandson, looking at the snow, grateful for the full circles life brought him.
“Lucien, you’re a lucky boy,” he said softly, and at the sound of the good Cajun name, the baby’s eyes fluttered and opened, stared at him like they both shared some deep, dark secret.
The men in his family passed down the sight to the males only. Luc or Lucky, as they would no doubt end up calling the boy, would no doubt have it, the way Kenny’s own great-grandfather, also called Lucky, did.
Lucky would also have family. Lots of it. And that had gotten all of them to hell and back.
He enjoyed watching Isabelle and Jake together, knowing their girls would soon be coming, and Kaylee and Nick, committed and content. Kenny had no doubt they’d come home one day and causally announce they’d married in a quick civil ceremony on impulse. That suited them—they both had that impatience and dislike of conventions and rules.
As for him, he held the next great love of his life in his hands.
They had a new reason to celebrate Christmas, and he was so sure Maggie would be pleased as anything.
LETTERS TO ELLIE
Loreth Anne White
“I’m Ellie Winters, your host every Friday night at eleven, and you’re listening to Your Call on CKNW 97 AM.” Ellie reached for the console, cueing the music. “This last request is for Marcia whose son’s plane was shot down over Iraq in 1991. Captain Nick Morgan is still missing.”
Through the soundproof studio window Ellie could see Mitchell, her producer, vetting last minute callers. The show computer on her desk showed several still in the line-up. She glanced at the studio clock—they were not all going to get on tonight.
She began to gradually fade-in the song as she spoke. “While the goal is to leave no man behind, the reality of war is that sometimes our heroes don’t come home. Sometimes our soldiers go Missing in Action, become Prisoners of War. Their fate unknown. But we dare not forget them.” She paused, struggling to keep the huskiness of out of her voice. “We dare not stop trying to bring them home.
“I want to thank everyone who called into our show tonight, on this last hour of National POW/MIA Recognition Day, and for sharing the ways in which you remember your missing sons, brothers, fathers, mothers, daughters, sisters—those who make the ultimate sacrifices to guard our very existence.”
She increased the volume, removed her headset and scrubbed her hands hard over her face. Almost fifteen years and still, it got to her. Some wounds cut deep, healed thin—or never healed at all. Because without closure, without knowing what happened, there would always remain a little kernel buried deep inside her heart—maybe he was alive, maybe he’d still come home. That quiet, insistent doubt had shaped Ellie’s entire adult life, whether she’d liked it or not.
From behind the window Mitchell made a sign asking if she wanted to take one last caller. Ellie nodded, reached for her water bottle and took a swig. As the song came to an end, she re-adjusted her headset, pulled the mike closer.
“This is Your Call. I’m Ellie Winters, and we have time to take one last call.” She glanced at her monitor. Next in the queue was Max from Fort Orchard, but the prefix of the number from which he was
calling was not local. The subject line read: Navy SEAL, vet.
Something inside her stilled.
She hit Enter.
“Our last caller for the night is Max, a Navy vet from Fort Orchard, our own special little corner of Pacific Northwest. Is there someone you want to honor tonight, Max?”
There was a moment of static silence.
“Go ahead, Max, you’re on air.”
Another beat of silence. Then, “Ellie . . . is that you? Ellie James?” His voice was rough, low, with a hint of North Carolina, and the mention of her maiden name brought her past crashing down over her shoulders. Her pulse began to race.
On the other side of the glass, Mitchell made a quick sign across his throat. But Ellie held up her palm, compelled by something she couldn’t begin to articulate.
“Go ahead, Max, is there something you want our listeners to know?”
He cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice was still thick, gravelly, his words very slightly slurred. “I went MIA—captured in hostile territory almost fifteen years ago. I’d like your listeners to know that when you’re out there, being held in some enemy shithole, the simple belief that someone back home has not forgotten you, is still waiting, still loves you . . . ” he was quiet for a long moment. “It can keep you alive. It can bring you home.”
She stared dead ahead, hands pressing down on the top of her desk, her chest filling with an emotion so powerful, so painful, she barely registered Mitchell gesticulating on the other side of the window for her to axe the call, start wrapping the show.
“I set a table for two,” she said, her voice going thick with emotion. “With a white linen cloth and a single red rose. I drape the POW/MIA flag over the back of his chair. I cook a special meal.” Her vision blurred. She pressed her hands down harder, struggling to go on.
The phone on the left side of her desk lit up red—showing Mitchell wanted to speak to her.