"Fine," he said tersely.
"Do you really think Dwayne's going to come back?"
"Yep."
Mia waited for him to elucidate, but he didn't continue. He obviously wasn't in a talkative mood. Not that he ever was, of course. But somehow the fairly easygoing candid-ness of their previous few conversations had vanished.
She knew his knee was anything but fine. She knew it hurt him badly—and that the fact that he'd been unable to defeat his attacker hurt him even more.
She knew that his injured knee and his inability to walk without a cane made him feel like less of a man. It was idiotic. A man was made up of so much more than a pair of strong legs and an athletic body.
It was idiotic, but she understood. Suddenly she understood that the list she'd seen on Frisco's refrigerator of all the things he couldn't do wasn't simply pessimistic whining, as she'd first thought. It was a recipe. It was specific directions for a magical spell that would make Frisco a man again.
Jump, run, skydive, swim, stretch, bend, extend...
Until he could do all those things and more, he wasn't going to feel like a man.
Until he could do all those things again... But he wasn't going to. That Navy doctor had said he wasn't going to get any better. This was it. Frisco had come as far as he could— and the fact that he could walk at all was something of a miracle at that.
Mia pulled the car into the condominium parking lot and parked. Frisco didn't wait for her to help him out of the car. Of course not. Real men didn't need help.
Her heart ached for him as she watched him pull out his crutches from the back seat. He grimly positioned them under his arms, and carrying the bag that the doctor had given him, swung toward the courtyard.
She followed more slowly.
Jump, run, skydive, swim, stretch, bend, extend...
It wasn't going to happen. Dr. Horowitz knew it. Mia knew it. And she suspected that deep inside, Frisco knew it, too.
She followed him into the courtyard and could barely stand to watch as he pulled himself painfully up the stairs.
He was wrong. He was wrong about it all. Moving onto the ground floor wouldn't make him less of a man. Admitting that he had physical limitations—that there were things he could no longer do—that wouldn't make him less of a man, either.
But relentlessly questing after the impossible, making goals that were unattainable, setting himself up only for failure—that would wear him down and burn him out. It would take away the last of his warmth and spark, leaving him bitter and angry and cold and incomplete. Leaving him less of a man.
Chapter 10
Frisco sat in the living room, cleaning his gun.
When Sharon's charming ex-boyfriend Dwayne had pulled out his knife this afternoon, Frisco had felt, for the first time in a while, the noticeable lack of a side arm.
Of course, carrying a weapon meant concealing that weapon. Although he was fully licensed to carry whatever he damn well pleased, he couldn't exactly wear a gun in a belt holster, like a cop or an old West gunslinger. And wearing a shoulder holster meant he'd have to wear a jacket over it, at least out in public. And—it was a chain reaction—if he wore a jacket, he'd have to wear long pants. Even he couldn't wear a jacket with shorts.
Of course, he could always do what Blue McCoy did. Blue was the Alpha Squad's XO—Executive Officer and second in command of the SEAL unit. Blue rarely wore anything other than cutoffs and an old worn-out, loose olive-drab fatigue shirt with the sleeves removed. And he always wore one of the guns he carried in a shoulder holster underneath his shirt, the smooth leather directly against his skin.
Frisco's knee twinged, and he glanced at the clock. It was nearly 0300. Three o'clock in the morning.
Steve Horowitz had given him a number of little vials filled with a potent local pain reliever similar to novocaine. It wasn't yet time for another injection, but it was getting close. Frisco had given himself an injection at close to nine o'clock, after Mia had driven him home from the hospital.
Mia...
Frisco shook his head, determined to think about anything but Mia, separated from him by only a few thin walls, her hair spread across her pillow, wearing only a tantaliz-ingly thin cotton nightgown. Her beautiful soft lips parted slightly in sleep....
Yeah, he was a master at self-torture. He'd been sitting here, awake for hours, spending most of his time remembering—hell, reliving—the way Mia had kissed him at the beach. Dear, sweet God, what a kiss that had been.
It wasn't likely he was going to get a chance to kiss her like that again. She'd made it clear that she wouldn't welcome a repeat performance. If he knew what was best, he'd stay far, far away from Mia Summerton. That wasn't going to be hard to do. From now on, she was going to be avoiding him, too.
A loud thump from the bedroom made him sit up. What the hell was that?
Frisco grabbed his crutches and his gun and moved as quickly as he could down the hall to Tasha's room.
He'd bought a cheap portable TV. It was quite possible the most expensive night-light and white noise machine in the world. Its bluish light flickered, illuminating the small room.
Natasha was sitting on the floor, next to her bed, sleepily rubbing her eyes and her head. She was whimpering, but only very softly. Her voice almost didn't carry above the soft murmurings of the television.
"Poor Tash, did you fall out of bed?" Frisco asked her, moving awkwardly through the narrow doorway and into the room. He slipped the safety onto his gun and slid it into the pocket of his shorts. "Come on, climb back up. I'll tuck you in again."
But when Tasha stood up, she staggered, almost as if she'd had too much to drink, and sat back down on her rear end. As Frisco watched, she crumpled, pressing her forehead against the wall-to-wall carpeting.
Frisco leaned his crutches against the bed and bent down to pick her up. "Tash, it's three in the morning. Don't play silly games."
Lord, the kid was on fire. Frisco felt her forehead, her cheek, her neck, double-checking, praying that he was wrong, praying that she was simply sweaty from a nightmare. But with each touch, he knew. Natasha had a raging fever.
He lifted her and put her in her bed.
How could this have happened? She'd been fine all day today. She'd had her swimming lesson with her usual enthusiasm. She'd gone back into the water over and over again with her usual energy. True, she'd been asleep when he'd returned from the hospital, but he'd chalked that up to exhaustion after the excitement of the day—watching Uncle Frisco get the living daylights kicked out of him by old, ugly Dwayne had surely been tiring for the kid.
Her eyes were half-closed and she pressed her head against her pillow as if it hurt, still making that odd, whimpering sound.
Frisco was scared to death. He tried to judge how high her fever was by the touch of his hand, and she seemed impossibly, dangerously hot.
“Tasha, talk to me," he said, sitting next to her on the bed. "Tell me what's wrong. Tell me your symptoms."
Cripes, listen to him. Tell me your symptoms. She was five years old, she didn't know what the hell a symptom was. And from the looks of things, she didn't even know she was here, couldn't hear him, couldn't see him.
He had medical training, but most of it was first-aid. He could handle gunshot wounds, knife wounds, burns and lacerations. But sick kids with sky-high fevers...
He had to get Natasha to the hospital.
He could call a cab, but man, he wouldn't be able to get Tasha down the stairs. He could barely make it himself with his crutches. He certainly couldn't do it carrying the girl, could he? It would be far too dangerous to try. What if he dropped her?
"I'll be right back, Tash," he told her, grabbing his crutches and heading out toward the kitchen telephone, where he kept his phone book.
He flipped the book open, searching for the phone number for the local cab company. He quickly dialed. It rang at least ten times before someone picked up.
"Yello
w Cab."
"Yeah," Frisco said. "I need a cab right away. 1210 Mjdfield Street, unit 2C. It's the condo complex on the corner of Midfield and Harris?"
"Destination?"
"City Hospital. Look I need the driver to come to the door. I got a little girl with a fever, and I'll need help carrying her down—"
"Sorry, sir. Our drivers do not leave their vehicles. He'll wait for you in the parking lot."
"Didn't you hear what I just said? This is an emergency. I have to get this kid to the hospital." Frisco ran his hand through his hair, trying to curb his anger and frustration. "I can't get her down the stairs by myself. I'm..." He nearly choked on the words. "I'm physically disabled."
"I'm sorry, sir. The rule is for our drivers' safety. However, the cab you requested will arrive in approximately ninety minutes."
"Ninety minutes? I can't wait ninety minutes!"
"Shall I cancel your request for a cab?"
"Yes." Cursing loudly, Frisco slammed down the phone.
He picked it up again and quickly dialed 911. It seemed to take forever before the line was picked up.
"What is the nature of your emergency?"
"I have a five-year-old with a very high fever."
"Is the child breathing?"
"Yes-"
"Is the child bleeding?"
"No, I said she's got a fever—"
"I'm sorry, sir. We have quite a number of priority calls and a limited number of ambulances. You'll get her to the hospital faster if you drive her yourself."
Frisco fought the urge to curse. "I don't have a car."
"Well, I can put you on the list, but since your situation isn't life or death per se, you risk being continuously bumped down as new calls come in," the woman told him. "Things usually slow down by dawn."
Dawn. "Forget it," Frisco said, hanging up none too gently.
Now what?
Mia. He was going to have to ask Mia for help.
He moved as quickly as he could back down the hall to Tasha's room. Her eyes were closed, but she was moving fitfully. She was still as hot to the touch. Maybe even hotter.
"Hang on, kid," Frisco said. "Hang on, princess. I'll be back in a sec."
He was starting to be able to move pretty nimbly with the crutches. He made it into the living room and out of the front door before he'd even had time to think.
But as he rang Mia's bell again and again, as he opened up the screen and hammered on the heavy wooden door, as he waited for her to respond, he couldn't help but wonder.
What the hell was he doing? He'd just spent the past six hours resolving to stay away from this woman. She didn't want him—she'd made that more than clear. So here he was, pounding on her door in the middle of the night, ready to humiliate himself even further by having to ask for help carrying a featherweight forty-pound little girl down the stairs.
The light went on inside Mia's apartment. She opened the door before she'd even finished putting on her bathrobe.
"Alan, what's wrong?"
"I need your help." She would never know how much it cost him to utter those words. It was only for Natasha that he would ask for help. If it had been himself in there, burning up with fever, he wouldn't've asked. He would have rather died. "Tasha's sick. She's got a really high fever—I want to take her over to the hospital."
"All right," Mia said without hesitation. "Let me throw on a pair of shorts and some sneakers and I'll pull the car around to the outside stairs."
She moved to go back toward her bedroom and her clothes, but he stopped her.
"Wait."
Mia turned back to the door. Frisco was standing on the other side of the screen, crutches under his arms. He was staring away from her, down at the carpeting. When he looked up, all of his customary crystal anger was gone from his eyes, leaving only a deeply burning shame. He could barely hold her gaze. He looked away, but then he forced himself to look up again, this time steadily meeting her eyes.
"I can't carry her down the stairs."
Mia's heart was in her throat. She knew what it had taken for him to say those words, and she so desperately didn't want to say the wrong thing in response. She didn't want to make light of it, but at the same time, she didn't want to embarrass him further by giving it too much weight.
"Of course not," she said quietly. "That would be dangerous to try on crutches. I'll get the car, then I'll come back up for Natasha."
He nodded once and disappeared.
She'd said the right thing, but there was no time to sag with relief. Mia dashed into her bedroom to change her clothes.
"An ear infection?" Frisco repeated, staring at the emergency room doctor.
This doctor was an intern, still in his twenties, but he had a bedside manner reminiscent of an old-fashioned, elderly country doctor, complete with twinkling blue eyes and a warm smile.
"I already started her on an antibiotic, and I gave her something to bring down that fever," he said, looking from Frisco to Mia, "along with a decongestant. That'll keep her knocked out for a while. Don't be surprised if she steeps later than usual in the morning."
"That's it?" Frisco asked. "It's just an ear infection?" He looked down at Tasha, who was sound asleep, curled up in the hospital bed. She looked impossibly small and incredibly fragile, her hair golden red against the white sheets.
"She may continue to experience the dizziness you described for a day or two," the doctor told them. "Keep her in bed if you can, and make sure she finishes the entire bottle of antibiotic. Oh, and ear plugs next time she goes swimming, all right?"
Frisco nodded. "You sure you don't want to keep her here for a while?"
"I think she'll be more comfortable at home," the young doctor said. "Besides, her fever's already gone down. Call me if she doesn't continue to improve."
An ear infection. Not encephalitis. Not appendicitis. Not scarlet fever or pneumonia. It still hadn't fully sunk in. Tash was going to be all right. An ear infection wasn't life threatening. The kid wasn't going to die. Frisco still couldn't quite believe it. He couldn't quite shake the tight feeling in his chest—the incredible fear, the sense of total and complete helplessness.
He felt Mia touch his arm. "Let's get her home," she said quietly.
"Yeah," he said, looking around, trying to collect himself, wondering when the relief was going to set in and push away this odd sensation of tightness and fear. "I've had enough of this place for one day."
The ride home was shorter than he remembered. He watched as Mia carried Tash back up the stairs and into his condo. She gently placed the still sleeping child into bed, and covered her with a sheet and a light blanket. He watched, trying not to think about the fact that she was taking care of Tasha because he couldn't.
"You ought to try to get some sleep, too," Mia told him, whispering as they went back down the hallway to the living room. "It's nearly dawn."
Frisco nodded.
Mia's face was in the shadows as she stood at the doorway, looking back at him. "Are you all right?"
No. He wasn't all right. He nodded. "Yeah."
"Good night, then." She opened the screen door.
"Mia..."
She stopped, turning back to face him. She didn't say a word, she just waited for him to speak.
"Thank you." His voice was husky, and to his horror he suddenly had tears in his eyes. But it was dark in the predawn, and there was no way she could have noticed.
"You're welcome," she said quietly and closed the door behind her.
She disappeared, but the tears that flooded his eyes didn't do the same. Frisco couldn't stop them from overflowing and running down his face. A sob escaped him, shaking him, and like ice breaking up on a river, another followed, faster and harder until, God, he was crying like a baby.
He'd honestly thought Tasha was going to die.
He had been totally terrified. Him, Frisco, terrified. He'd gone on rescue missions and information-gathering expeditions deep into hos
tile territory where he could've been killed simply for being American. He'd sat in cafes and had lunch, surrounded by the very people who wouldn't have hesitated to slit his throat had they known his true identity. He'd infiltrated a terrorist fortress and snatched back a cache of stolen nuclear weapons. He'd looked death—his own death—in the eye on more than one occasion. He'd been plenty scared all those times; only a fool wouldn't have been. That fear had been sharp edged, keeping him alert and in control. But it was nothing compared to the sheer, helpless terror he'd felt tonight.
Frisco stumbled back into the sanctuary of his bedroom, unable to staunch the flow of his tears. He didn't want to cry, dammit. Tasha was safe. She was okay. He should have enough control over his emotions to keep the intensity of his relief from wiping him out this way.
He clenched his teeth and fought it. And lost.
Yeah, Tasha was safe. For now. But what if he hadn't been able to get her to the hospital? It had been good that he'd brought her in when he did, the doctor had said. Her fever had been on the verge of becoming dangerously high.
What if Mia hadn't been home? What if he hadn't been able to get Tash down the stairs? Or what if during the time he spent figuring out how to get Tash to the hospital, her fever had risen dangerously high? What if his inability to do something so simple as carry a child down a set of stairs had jeopardized her life? What if she had died, because he lived on the second floor? What if she had died, because he was too damn proud to admit the truth—that he was physically disabled.
He'd said the words tonight when he spoke to the cab dispatcher. I'm physically disabled. He wasn't a SEAL anymore. He was a crippled man with a cane—crutches now—who might've let a kid die because of his damned pride.
Frisco sat down on his bed and let himself cry.
Mia set her purse down on her kitchen table with an odd-sounding thunk. She lifted it up and set it down again. Thunk.
What was in there?
She remembered even before she opened the zipper.
Natasha's medicine. Frisco had picked up Tasha's antibiotic directly from the hospital's twenty-four-hour pharmacy.
Seal Team Ten Page 61