King of Hearts (Deuces Wild Book 1)

by Irish Winters

  He hadn’t known it then, but even with a knife wound in his shoulder, those deep blue eyes of his had swept her feminine receptors off their silly feet and her with them. How did a man get under your skin so fast? Or so deep into your heart? She honestly didn’t know. The feelings she had for Tucker defied logic and biology, but not chemistry. There seemed plenty of that to go around, and all of it flammable with a ‘Danger! Stand back!’ sign.

  Ah, that man. He’d be in charge if he were there instead of Simon. No doubt about it.

  “Ahem, could you snip this for me?”

  “Oh. Oh, sure.” She rallied out of her daydream and grabbed the scissors to snip the line Simon held at a right angle from the stump of Dang’s leg. “Sorry. Guess I’m tired.”

  “No problem. Just stick with me a couple more minutes. I need to finish sewing this flap of skin, then we’re done. Can you slide the leg out of the clamp and wrap it in plastic or something? It’s attracting flies.”

  Ewww. Even with surgical gloves, lifting the separated leg out of the bloody clamp was a thoroughly disgusting job to have to do. Melissa ignored the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach and carefully covered the limb in the small section of surgical sheeting she’d prepared before the surgery.

  Thoughts of Tucker danced back to mind, if only because he’d be smirking at her if he’d been there, teasing her to be tough. To not be a pansy. He’d tell her not to chew on the leg bone or something equally gross, then he’d laugh because she had to be ten shades of green. Of course, then he’d wrap her up tight in his arms and press her against that heavily muscled chest of his. She’d breathe his masculine scent in and close her eyes. He’d kiss her neck. He’d call her babe, and she’d melt and wish life wasn’t so complicated, that she could just throw herself at him, and that everything would work out.

  Melissa set the limb on the farthest side of the makeshift counter where she didn’t have to look at it. She knew better than to wish her life away. Marriage was a darned hard job and nothing in life was that easy. Happily-ever-after could change on a dime, and the hero you’d given your heart and soul to could come home without his legs or arms. Without the desire to live.

  No matter how much you loved him, there would still be bleak days where it seemed the world was against the both of you. Where nothing went right. There would still be hospice. Tears in the middle of long, hopeless nights. The final vigil at the hospital you thought would never end, but when it ended, you wished it hadn’t. The funeral parlor.

  The sad silvery notes of the bugle at Arlington...

  “You okay?” Simon asked. “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m good,” Melissa answered quickly, nodding to prove it. Good and green and desperately homesick for Tucker. He’d come to her at the worst time in her life, a guardian angel with a potty mouth, an AR in his hands, and a heart as big as the sky. A risk taker.

  Melissa stifled a sneaky sob that came out of nowhere. All along, she’d let Tucker believe he was the problem, that his willingness to sacrifice for his job was a deal breaker, but it wasn’t. Not really. Deep down in her heart, she was so proud of him that it actually hurt to look at him sometimes. He knew who he was and what he stood for every day.

  She was the problem. The coward. She’d already given her heart and soul to one man. One hero. But could she give the rest of her life to one so bold and as brash as Tucker Chase? Could she take the chance and live in the shadow of death again? She honestly didn’t know.

  “That ought to do it,” Simon said softly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “How’s he doing?”

  Melissa tugged the stethoscope off her neck and listened to poor Dang’s heartbeat. He seemed to have come through surgery fine. “What do you think?” she asked the savvy jungle surgeon at her side. “What’s a good heart rate after you cut a man’s leg off?”

  Simon peeled one of their patient’s eyelids open. “Hell, I don’t know. He looks good to me, though, and he’s still breathing. That’s a good sign.” He transferred the packaged limb into a secure garbage can before he stripped off his gloves. “Come here. Lose your gloves and wash your hands. Wipe your face. You’ll feel better once you get the smell of this place off your body.”

  She joined him at the plastic washbasin. While he pumped water from the ten-gallon reservoir, she washed her hands and arms thoroughly, then dried them with a long paper towel. Then vice versa—she pumped while he lathered up. Methodically. The man did have big, rugged hands. Calluses. But clean. Tanned. His cuticles were ragged, but his nails were trimmed short. A man’s hands. No wedding ring.

  A wave of heat flashed up her spine at that errant thought. Who cared if Simon Siegel was married? She didn’t.

  Very conscientiously, she dampened the paper towel and ran it over her neck, but there was no way to truly feel refreshed in this country. She needed a shower and to get out of her clothes and into something clean. Steamy humidity ran down her neck the moment she removed the refreshing towel.

  Simon stretched, but the moment he did, his shirt pulled out of his pants and a fine athletic belly revealed the happy trail below his navel, not what she’d expected to notice after such a horrendous day. But there it was, a handsome tease. She averted her gaze and draped the paper towel over her neck if only to keep the sweat from running down her back and her flustered embarrassment in check.

  “I could use a drink. How about you?” he asked, a husky drift in his voice.

  She shook the invitation off, the intimate sight of his stomach along with it. “Not tonight. It’s late, and I’m really tired.”

  “You did good, Melissa. You deserve a long night’s sleep after all this, but I doubt you’ll get it. Folks will be up and needing your nursing skill before you know it. Come on. If nothing else, it’ll relax you so you can sleep better.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she insisted, rubbing the back of her arm over her brow again.

  “Nurse Melissa,” he scolded, a tease of steel in his tone. “Doctor’s orders. One nightcap. Now. Then bed rest.”

  What harm could it do? She shrugged the tension off her shoulders. “One drink, then I’m history.”

  “Deal.” He lifted the heavy canvas to their temporary surgical center and waved her outside. “Our patient isn’t going anywhere. I’ll come back and check on him, maybe stay the night. Oreo, are you out here?”

  “On your left,” came the quick reply from the shadows. Oreo stepped into view, his rifle over his arm. “How’d it go?”

  “Just like I thought. The leg was a rotted mess,” Simon acknowledged. “Glad it’s over with. He’ll feel better in a week or so.”

  “We hope,” Melissa added, “but it’s a good thing we did this tonight. I don’t think Dang would’ve lasted another day.”

  “How’d it go with you?” Simon asked Oreo.

  “No problems. Jackman’s late getting in. Are you kids out of here?”

  She blushed at the way he’d connected her to Simon. They weren’t kids. They were very serious adults on their way to their own huts after one drink. That was all.

  “For now,” Simon said. “Keep an eye on Dang, will you? Tell me if Jackman shows. Would you mind burying that leg before it attracts rats? I stuck it in the garbage can outside the tent.”

  “You bet.” Oreo peeked inside the tented clinic. “Man, this place stinks.”

  Simon clapped a wide-open palm to his back. “Thanks, buddy. Be back in a few.”

  His hut ended up being the one located away from all the others and closest to the parking lot. Most of the huts were large enough to house between four to six families, but his was small, more of a large shed than a hut. An open window framed each wall, but the door was locked.

  Melissa waited, feeling out of place while Simon pulled a set of keys from his back pocket and unlocked his place. This simple drink after a gruesome surgery felt more like a date now that she was there. Wringing her fingers, she vowed she’d keep this short an
d sweet. Well, not too sweet. Maybe just short and—pleasant.

  Simon bowed like a courtly gentleman and beckoned her inside. “Welcome to my humble hut in the middle of no-damned-where.”

  She hadn’t noticed until then that he had a strong chin. A leader’s chin, square and firm. There was a definite handsomeness to his looks. She hesitated. This seemed so wrong, her on the porch of another guy’s hut, prepared to share a round of drinks while the man she’d meant to consider during these three months was thousands of miles away, and maybe deliberating exactly what she’d asked him to.

  Oh, who was she kidding? Tucker wasn’t deliberating anything. He probably hadn’t even heard a word she’d said. She had no doubt he was involved in some high-speed chase or some other FBI adventure, and she was the last thing on his mind.

  “Are you thinking too hard again?” Simon asked, his head tilted and his eyes sparkling against the moonless night. “I can bring your drink to the porch if that will set your mind at ease.”

  She swallowed hard at the velvet temptation in his voice. “Thank you, that would be nice. I’ll sit here and wait.”

  Simon grinned, waggling those thick brows, but dragged a wooden chair out of his hut and onto the porch that was nothing more than ten or so boards nailed to a two-by-four framework. He dragged another chair out for him. “Take a load off. I don’t have ice, but I do have authentic glass glasses.”

  For some reason, that made her giggle. “Glass glasses, huh?”

  He winked and disappeared into the darkness of his hut while Melissa took a seat, thankful she was finally off her feet. God, it had been a long day. This just might be the perfect end to it—a drink to warm her tired soul, then a good night’s sleep. For certain tomorrow would pose just as many problems as this day had, but she’d be rested and ready for it. She sighed. So. Tired.

  “Here you go,” Simon whispered as he brought a bottle of brandy and two small crystal glasses outside.

  “However do you travel without breaking them?” she asked as he sloshed an ounce or two into one glass and offered it to her, while he poured the same into the other.

  “I must confess,” he whispered conspiratorially, “they’ve traveled in an old ammo box wrapped in a small Turkish towel. Don’t tell anyone, but I like the idea of drinking good liquor from actual glass. It’s more civilized and a good drink just tastes better. I had a set of Irish crystal once, but it broke when I… moved.” He rested the bottle on his knee and lifted his drink to her, a thoughtful glimmer in his eye. “A toast to us, the luckiest medical team on the planet.”

  Melissa clinked her glass to his and offered a genuine smile. “I’m guessing we’ll know how lucky we are in the morning, won’t we?” She sipped the brown liquid and instantly closed her eyes as the fire in the drink scorched a path down her throat. “Blah. Eww. Yuck. That’s what brandy tastes like?” She could barely draw in a breath.

  He winked before he downed his glass in one swallow. His eyes didn’t even water. “It’ll warm you all the way to your toes once you get used to it.”

  She took another tiny sip, but shook her head at the nasty flavor on her tongue, needing to cough but afraid she’d choke if she started. “It’s quite strong, isn’t it?” she wheezed.

  “That it is,” he said quietly as he poured himself another round. “Like you, Melissa. I’m sorry you got caught up in this trouble we’re in, but I’m glad, too. I couldn’t have operated on Dang without you. You’ve dug in and made a difference in this pitiful camp since you’ve been here. You should be proud of yourself. Cheers.”

  She stayed her glass. She needed to know. “Why me?” Was it for the ransom? Did they know she was Jed McCormack’s daughter-in-law?

  Simon’s lips pursed and his shoulders went up. He tossed his head back and emptied his glass before he said, “Luck of the draw I guess. I had intel that promised one of the clinic doctors would go after the supplies. My guys didn’t know any different. Tristan said you looked smart, you could’ve been a doctor.”

  She took another sip, this one not as fiery as the others. The brandy did tend to go down smoother each time. “I need to go back to the city, Simon. I’m not trained for this. You need a real doctor.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, his eye on the empty glass in his hand, steel in his tone. “I need another drink and so do you.”

  Melissa waited while he filled their glasses. She didn’t need another drink, but at this late hour, she didn’t need the confrontation that would ensue if she insisted on her rights as an American citizen. She didn’t need to be stuffed back in that box, either.

  She opted for a change in subject. The man had a quiet agony about him, a ghost. She recognized the far off stare that crept into his eyes. It was as if he was somewhere else seeing things that were neither present nor real. Tucker had that same look sometimes. So had Brady. “Whatever brought you to Vietnam, Simon Siegel?”

  He winked. And that was the last thing she remembered...

  Chapter Ten

  “Your choice. Which way do you want to go?”

  Tucker stared at his fellow agent, his mind caught between two hellish firestorms and two impossible decisions. His eleven-year-old son on one side, the woman he loved on the other.

  And there it was, the eternal dilemma of every hard man with an impossible job to do, whether as a SEAL, an FBI agent, a police officer, or a fireman. Do I stay or do I go? Who do I save? The men who would die for me, or the family sitting safely back home waiting for me, counting on me?

  Which mission was more important—keeping the home fire burning or putting out the flames of war on the eastern front? Fighting side by side with his brothers and sisters at arms or fighting with his wife at home? Rescuing Melissa or rescuing his only child? For the first time in his life, he honestly couldn’t decide.

  To lose one would cut as deep as the other. If he traveled ten miles south, he’d have to rely on Stewart to rescue Melissa. Alex could do it, but who knew what she’d suffer by the time Stewart got a team in country? If Tucker went after her, he’d have to sacrifice Deuce to the horrors of child labor for another long day, longer if the authorities caught Tucker in the country. He’d be back in jail. Knowing Nicole, Tucker might never see his son again, and God, the thought gutted him. He loved that boy so damned hard.

  A heavy weight pressed in on Tucker’s chest. The room spun. He looked westward to Melissa, the woman of his heart. Turning south, he faced Deuce, the child he couldn’t live without. It all came down to this impossibly hard decision that only he could make, this pivotal moment when he stood to lose everything no matter who he chose to rescue.

  He stilled, his heart pumping fire into his chest, and the most logical choice clear. Let Stewart do what he did best. He was right. His men would find Melissa. He was better equipped for jungle warfare with the creeps who’d abducted her. He’d have more men to get the job done. Besides, she’d made her position quite clear, and as hard as it was to let her go, Tucker knew to his soul that she would always love Brady first. There wasn’t enough room in her heart for another man. For him.

  He scrubbed a knuckle into his one good eye, tired beyond belief of fighting the world. I’m just in the way, and I’m running out of time, and—

  Isaiah came unglued. “You stupid frog! Melissa loves you! How can you not know that?”

  Tucker had to look twice at the angry guy he’d honestly tagged as nothing more than an intelligent nerd. Isaiah’s fists were tight, his feet positioned to fight. Coiled muscles bunched at his shoulders, and damn, the kid had big shoulders. Big hands, too. That fist of his looked like it could do some damage.

  Tucker strove for patience. “Look at us, kid. I’m in rough shape, and you’re—”

  “I’m not a kid!” Isaiah cocked his arm back, his right fist raised and all knuckles on target. “So what if you’re in rough shape? Has that ever stopped you before? You’re a SEAL, you moron. How many SEALs does it take to screw in a light bulb anyway, because you’re
sure making it look like an impossible job! So what if you’re not on that jet out of Vietnam in a day? Stop having to be the biggest and baddest ass on the planet, Chase. Stop having to be Melissa’s one and only. Her first. You missed that boat a long time ago, and God! Stop running on ego! So what if you end up in jail again? I’m here and I’m with you no matter what, so do what’s right and let the universe sort everything else out! Go. Get. Your. Woman!”

  Well, now that you put it that way...

  Tucker stuck his chest out, daring Isaiah to do something with that big attitude of his. Maybe another knockdown, dragged-out brawl was exactly what they both needed.

  Isaiah’s fist came down on the wooden desk below the window. “You’re so stupid, Chase.” The mental message of disgust hit Tucker like a ton of bricks. Isaiah blew out a deliberate sigh through his nostrils just before he vocalized, “I’m disappointed in you.”

  Tucker came up fighting. He stabbed his thumb into his own chest to make sure the world knew. “Deuce is my son. My son! He’s just like his old man—me! He’s tough, and he’s got what it takes. He wouldn’t expect me to rescue him from a little hard work if it meant saving Melissa from kidnappers. He’d want me to rescue her first. Now load up. I’m getting Melissa back!”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Isaiah said calmly, every trace of his temper gone. “I’ve got a tarp to cover the pickup bed with. Step on it. It’s starting to rain.”

  Tucker had to really look at the man beside him. Who was this guy?

  They loaded the ammo and supplies in record time and secured the tarp with bungee cords, and damn, Isaiah had the makings of a top-notch agent. He’d thought of everything, even suppressors for those M4s, and those IED kits? Deadly miracles in the making as long as they were handled right. They were on the road within the hour and hustling through Vietnam’s version of early-morning traffic.