Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Reagan…will you marry me?” He’s got the ring, a little thing, but beautiful. Simple, white gold, a princess-cut diamond, a single tiny diamond on either side of the larger center one. I’m crying, nodding. Holding up my finger. “Come on, baby. Let me hear the word.”

  “Yes.” I choke it out, squeak the word he wants to hear. “Yes, yes. Yes. Please, yes.”

  “Dear god, thank you,” he breathes.

  He takes my left hand in his and slides the ring down onto my fourth finger.

  “Did you really think I’d say no?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Like I said, it doesn’t always make sense to me that you could love me, and I—I want to make you mine. So you can’t change your mind.”

  I just laugh. “I was yours already, silly. I don’t know how this happened any more than you do, Derek. But I’m grateful, too.” I hang on to his neck and lift myself up for a kiss. “And I’ll never change my mind.”

  “Swear?”

  I push him; we roll so I’m on top. “Derek. To me, that’s what getting married is: a promise that I’ll never change my mind.”

  “Oh.”

  I kiss him then. Deep, long, and hard.

  But again, before I can really get lost in it, he pulls away. “There’s one other thing, Ree.”

  “What?” I breathe, kissing his jaw, aching for him, hungry for him.

  “Tommy…I want to adopt him.” He drops this bomb in a calm voice, as if it’s not going to rock my world. “But I want him to—to keep Tom’s name. I want you to take mine, and keep…keep the Barrett. Hyphenate. So Tommy has…so Tommy knows exactly where he came from.”

  “God, Derek.” I’m bawling suddenly. Even without pregnancy hormones making everything go haywire, this would have me in pieces. But both? I’m a wreck, instantly. “You mean—you mean it?”

  “I love that boy, Ree.” He swallows hard. “And I loved his dad like a brother. I want Tommy to know, when he’s old enough, who his father was. Where he came from. I want him to know that Tom was one of the best men I’ve ever known.”

  That makes me cry even harder. I can’t stop. The proposal, and then this? I can’t breathe.

  Derek lets me cry, holding me tight.

  When I get hold of myself, I’m still full of so many emotions I don’t know what to do with them all. I’m overflowing. Boiling over. The only thing I know how to do is crush my mouth to Derek’s and devour his breath, taking his strength into me. He holds me, and we kiss, and kiss, and kiss. And then his hands wander, and I moan into his mouth to encourage him.

  We roll and paw at each other, peel clothes off, try to keep our lips connected while stripping each other. I reach for him, and when I’ve got him naked, he is hot and hard, and I’m wet and aching, and this is so perfect, him beneath me, his body a pillow, a rock, a shelter. I taste his tongue and impale myself on him, sinking down onto him. I fill myself with him.

  I moan his name and begin to move.

  I take everything I need from him, gasp his name and take and take. And between every breath, he says my name, and takes all I have. I take, he takes. It works, because I’m giving, and he’s giving, and we’re both complete.

  CHAPTER 23

  REAGAN

  I’m wearing a white wedding dress, holding a bouquet of pink roses, white lilies, and lavender. We’re not in a church, though. We’re in the Brenham hospital. I’m walking down the aisle, which, in this case, is the hallway of the hospital leading up to Hank’s room. Ida is pushing his wheelchair, and I’ve got my hand on his arm.

  Hank had a stroke last week. He was doing okay for a while, but then he got a cold, the cold led to pneumonia, and then a stroke. Now the right side of his face is pulled down, his lip drooping. But his left hand, clutching mine, is as strong as ever. He’s giving me away. The nurses and doctors are all lining the hall, piled into doorways, watching. They all love Hank here, because how can you not? Hank is amazing. Ida is blinking hard, fighting tears, like I am. Tears at Hank’s deteriorating condition, tears for me, tears about me getting married.

  The wedding march is coming from an iPhone, played over a mobile speaker. Rania follows me, holding the train of my dress. Tommy? Ohhh, Tommy. So damn cute in his tux, walking in front of me beside Maida Lee. Maida scatters flower petals, and Tommy holds a pillow with the rings. He practiced for days at home, walking from the barn to the house and back with the pillow from his bed and a toy of some kind.

  We move through the doorway into the room. The bed got moved flat against the wall for the ceremony, and someone found a lectern or a podium from somewhere. The hospital chaplain stands behind it, flipping through the pages of his Bible. Derek stands to the left of the podium, dressed in his best blues. The right leg of his uniform slacks is pinned up, showing the athletic prosthetic. He’s so gorgeous in his uniform it’s hard to look at him, but impossible to look away. Hunter is beside him, in his blues.

  I stop in front of Derek, and Ida turns Hank’s chair so he can see us both, so he can hold my hand. He won’t let go. So I stand facing Derek, my right hand in Derek’s, my left clutched in both of Hank’s.

  I’m half-listening to the chaplain say the words—dearly beloved, we’re gathered here—as I alternate my gaze from Derek to Hank and back again. We were going to wait to get married until the farm sale was finalized, but then Hank’s condition started worsening to the point that he couldn’t leave the hospital. A wedding without Hank was unthinkable, so we scrambled. I found a dress, Hunter and Rania and the girls drove down, making it in one marathon drive. They helped us find tuxes, flowers. It had to be a real wedding, even if it was in a hospital—that was Derek’s only request. So here we are, me in my backless, strapless dress gown with a short train. Ida, ever skillful, managed to alter the dress to accommodate my growing belly.

  We come to the vows.

  Derek looks me in the eyes. “I stayed up all night for days, trying to figure out how to write these vows. I must’ve scrapped a dozen attempts. None of it was right. So I’m going for simple. Just say what’s in my heart, right here, right now. And really, it is pretty simple. I love you. I’ll fight for you. For us. I’ll never give up, and I’ll love you more every day. I’ll always be faithful. I’ll always be there for you, for Tommy, and for whoever this” —he touches my belly— “little person in here turns out to be. That’s my vow, Reagan: to love you forever, no matter what, through everything and anything.”

  “Derek…I never realized it, but I didn’t believe in second chances. Especially when it came to finding love. I don’t think you believed in love at all. So we both learned something when we met. And now, here we are. I could tell you I love you right now, and of course it would be true. But it’s not enough. It’s not good enough. I know we haven’t come to this part yet, but I’m going to say it anyway: I do.” I squeeze his hand, blinking back tears. “I do. A million times, I do.”

  The chaplain glances at Derek. “Son?”

  “I do.” Two words from his lips, but I hear three, I see the I love you in his eyes.

  “Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may—well, ahem. I guess you know what to do.”

  We’re kissing, a deep, slow kiss that’s inappropriate for a wedding or a hospital, much less a wedding in a hospital, but everyone is cheering and clapping, and there are tears on many faces.

  Hank pulls my hand, and I break away from Derek. Hank’s other hand struggles up off his lap, gesturing to Derek, who takes it. Hank places my hand on top of Derek’s, and then sandwiches our joined hands between his. He wants to speak, wants to say something, but he can’t. His lips move, and his eyes go from mine to Derek’s and back, full of thoughts and intelligence and emotion.

  Ida speaks up, speaking for her husband of fifty-odd years. “We love you, Reagan. We half-raised Tom. We kissed him and gave him money when he left for boot camp. We sent him care packages everywhere he went. We stood with you at his funeral. We cried wit
h you. We’ve helped you raise Tommy.” Her voice falters, and she looks to Hank for strength. Somehow, she finds it. “We’ve raised six children of our own, and we have—oh my, what is it now?—more than twenty grandchildren, and at least three great-grandchildren.”

  There are cheers from the crowd around the door where those children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are gathered.

  “Yes, my loves. Now hush.” She takes a shuddering breath. “We love you, Reagan. And you, too, Derek. Be each other’s—”

  “And me, Gramma Ida? And me?” Tommy pipes up. He climbs up on Hank’s lap. Hank’s eyes waver, and he squeezes Tommy. “You love me, too, Gramma Ida?”

  Ida has to fight for composure. “Yes, Tommy. Dearest, sweetest Tommy. You most of all, my boy.” She caresses Tommy’s head. “Reagan, Derek, be each other’s happiness. Life hands you a lot of lemons, which means you have to be each other’s sugar, so you can make lemonade. That’s the essence of love, if you ask me. The determination to be sweet as sugar when everything around you is lemons.”

  Hank nods. Reaches past Tommy for me. I keep hold of Derek’s hand, pulling him with me. Hank’s once long and strong arms, now trembling and straining, wrap around us three, binding us, blessing us.

  * * *

  In that same hospital room, Hank passes the next day, surrounded by his family. Which includes, of course, Tommy, Derek, and me.

  Ida cries, but she’s holding it together as the family, one by one, kisses Hank’s face, saying goodbye for the last time. They cling to each other and file out of the room. Finally, everyone is gone. Everyone except Ida and me.

  “Hank was my second husband, you know.” She’s lying on the bed beside him, her head on his chest, now forever still. I suppose she’s fallen asleep like this every night for…whatever three hundred and sixty-five times fifty-seven is.

  I’m startled by her sudden admission. “Really? I never knew that.”

  “Only Hank knows. Knew. My first husband, William, was a fighter pilot. I was sixteen, he was nineteen, and so handsome. I ran away to marry him. This was nineteen-fifty, and everyone knew the Korean War was coming. We were married in a little church in Tupelo, Mississippi, on February eighteenth.

  “He’d just finished training school. I think he’d told them he was older than he was, but I honestly don’t know. He was a very talented pilot, I do know that much. We had three months together. Three wonderful, amazing months. We were just kids, you know, he and I both. Me especially. My parents were so angry, and I ran away. I thought I knew better, the way teenage girls do. They sent me letter after letter to the little apartment where Will and I lived, outside Langley. They begged me to come home.”

  She’s speaking quietly, eyes closed, as if so, so tired. “I didn’t. Oh, no. I loved Will, and he loved me. He was going to war and we both knew it, but we thought our love was enough to bring him back. And it was, for the first two and a half years of the war. He flew hundreds of missions. He was an ace, and I was so proud. He sent his money back to me. I made us a home in that little apartment. I was ready for him to come home, ready for the war to be over so I could be his wife. Well, the last time he came home, in January of fifty-three, we conceived a child. I knew it by the time a month had passed. I knew it then, that night. I just knew. And I told him, I said, ‘Will, you just put a baby in me.’ He was proud. Like it was…like he’d won a race or something. He started talking to my stomach.” She sniffs, laughs.

  “He was shot down a month later. Killed instantly. I mourned for months. But I was pregnant and alone. So I went home to Mama and Papa. And they took me back. I miscarried, though. I was too upset, I think. Later, after the war, I was in Jackson with my parents, and I met a dashing young soldier named Henry. My Hank. And we fell in love. He knew about Will. He loved me enough—throughout the years—and he always understood that a piece of me still belonged to William. He loved me anyway, and he loved that missing piece. I had three months with Will, and fifty-seven years with Hank. But your first love? There’s something there that you can never replace. But you have to let Derek love you. You have to let him love that missing piece, Reagan. You have to let him.”

  Silence.

  “Ida?”

  She opens an eye at me. “I’m just going to rest now, Reagan. I’ll be all right. I just need to rest.”

  I cross the room, kiss her cheek. “I love you, Ida.”

  She just smiles at me, eyes still closed.

  Ida ended up never leaving the hospital. After Hank died, she just never woke up again.

  And that’s how I want to go. In my sleep, with the man I love. After sixty years together.

  EPILOGUE

  DEREK

  San Antonio, 2013

  “Push, you pussy!” I shout. “Get it up! Get it up! You better push harder than that, you little bitch! Yes! There you go, a little more…and down. Good.”

  PFC Michael Helms is missing both legs from the waist down. Stepped on an IED. He’s a buff motherfucker, though, and he’s got heart. Real heart. Never gives up. That’s what kept him alive when the medics couldn’t get to him for nearly ten minutes, pinned down by a sniper.

  Everyone in here has a story. Buddy over there lost most of the skin on his face in an explosion. And he’s the funniest guy I’ve ever met. He can make anyone laugh, no matter how shitty their day. They’re all my clients. I started out in the Army hospital where I did my own recuperation…twice. Busted ass night and day to get my therapy license, and opened my own gym for guys like me. Guys and girls, I should say. Seen a few women come through here, combat vets like everybody else, missing pieces, with stories they don’t want to tell. I push them, squids and grunts and jarheads alike. Force them to live. Force them to want to live, despite the losses they’ve all suffered. I’m damn good at it. And they identify with me, knowing my story. Seeing the evidence in my missing leg, in the Paralympics medals on the wall.

  Quitting time comes around, the guys showering and filtering out, leaving me to close the gym. I wipe everything down, stock the cooler, shut off the computer, the lights. Drive home.

  Well, I head that way, at least. I stop at a certain bar on the way. Hunter is there, has a round waiting for me. We talk about the day, about his and Rania’s third kid, a boy this time. Victor, after Hunter’s dad. He just turned one. Big trouble, but cute as hell.

  Not as cute as Hank, though. Never has a three-year old boy been as cute as Henry Thomas West. He’s all me, and all Reagan. Blond, green eyes, sweet as sugar and ready to cause a hell of a ruckus if you take your eyes off him for a split second.

  “How’s Reagan coming along?” Hunter raises a finger for a refill.

  “Oh, she’s in the I hate my body, I hate being pregnant, why did you do this to me, I’m a whale phase.”

  Hunter chuckles. “Fuck, I hate that phase.”

  “Me, too. Why d’you think I’m here?” I jerk my head toward the outside world, meaning home. “Soon as I get home, Tommy’s gonna want to play LEGOs and Henry will need a diaper, and Reagan will need pretzels and peanut butter and diet root beer.”

  “Quit complaining, douche. You love it.”

  I nod. “Fuckin’ right, I do. But it’s my right as a man to complain about it now and then.”

  Hunter laughs. “True shit, son.” He swigs at his Buck Wit. “So. Y’all done?”

  “With kids?” I clarify. “Ain’t had this one yet, so I’m not sure. Ask me when the baby’s a month or two old, and I’ll probably say hell yes, we’re done. Ask me again later, and I’ll probably say maybe. I’d like a daughter.”

  Hunter chuckles, shakes his head. “As a man with both, I can tell you girls start out easy, but they only get harder as time goes on.”

  “Guess we’ll have to see.”

  We each have one more, exchanging baby and work stories, and then I drive home. I had a big ol’ Chevy Silverado rigged up so I can do everything from the steering wheel, gas, brake, all that. No way I could drive with my ri
ght leg the way it is. Took some learning, but I’m used to it now.

  Rania is there, along with Maida, Emma, and Vic. It’s a fucking zoo. Five kids, all yelling, running around. Tommy and Maida have toy lightsabers, and Tommy is on top of the back of the couch, swinging at Maida, who is dancing across the cushions. Each one yelling “I GOT you!” Emma and Hank are on the floor, whacking each other with a doll and a truck, respectively, and laughing about it, for some reason. Vic is crawling around on three limbs, using one hand to keep a binky stuffed in his mouth.

  There’s my love, sitting in her favorite chair, nibbling on Triscuits, talking to Rania and overseeing the chaos.

  “Has he gone home now?” Rania asks me as I enter.

  “Yeah. He’ll beat you there, though.” I give her a one-armed hug, and she squeezes my waist.

  Rania has, throughout Reagan’s pregnancy with Hank and this one, too, been here every day, helping with the cooking and cleaning and childcare, so Reagan can work.

  My girl writes books. Who knew? She writes these kinky, steamy novels about military men and the women who love them. They make me blush like a schoolgirl, but they sell like hookers on a two-for-Tuesday.

  She’d smack me for saying that.

  I’m proud as hell of her, though. She’s good at it. Works hard. She’s talented, and she has a mind for the business aspect, which is tricky, it turns out.

  Plus, when she’s writing those scenes, I get booty. Like…mad sex. Crazy, swinging-from-the-ceilings fucking. “Research,” she calls it. My goal, usually, is to see how many times I can make her come before she begs me to let her sleep. So far, my personal record is six. She couldn’t move after that, though. And that night led to the current burgeoning belly.

  And, judging by the look on her face as I approach her, I’m in for one of those nights.

  It is good to be me.

  Rania and the kids leave after a few minutes, and we have dinner. A sit-down family dinner is a nonnegotiable for us. Reagan quits writing when I get home, and we cook together. The kids goof around, and we have a glass of wine or two, providing Ree isn’t preggo. And we have dinner. Seven days a week. And as the kids get older, I’m going to continue insisting on it, no matter how mad they get. I grew up without sit-down dinners, and I’ll be damned if they will.