As she turned the cruiser around, worry ate at her. She wasn’t a paramedic, although she had advanced first-aid training. Jordana’s worry was real. Over the past two years, she’d become friends with the doctor and knew she didn’t show her worry often.
Shelby drove slowly down the steep, muddy road, heading back toward Jackson Hole. Something gnawed at her. Taking a deep breath, Shelby tried to shrug it off. Dakota was a man in his element up here in the raw, untamed Tetons. Apparently his SEAL training had given him the ability to survive in the harshest of environments.
As she drove down the narrow, twisting road, she figured out she’d do a Google search of SEALs and educate herself. Her father had been a military police officer in the marines. As a child of a military family, she recalled her moving from one base to another every two years. She lost good friends she made, never to see them again. It had been emotionally hard on Shelby, but her father was good at what he did. And she was proud of him, as was her mother. But she’d never heard him mention SEALs. Once her shift was over, Shelby would drop by for a visit to her parents’ home on the other side of town. Maybe her father would know more about this special breed of military men.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NIGHTMARE BEGAN as it always did. Dakota was following his LT, Lieutenant Sean Vincent, up a slippery scree slope in the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. It was black. So black he couldn’t see a foot in front of him without his NVGs, night-vision goggles, in place over his eyes. Everything became a grainy green. The only problem was there was no depth of perception when using them, and the four-man SEAL team slipped, fell, got up and kept moving.
They were hunting an HTV, high-value-target, Taliban warlord who was hiding out in the cave systems of the Hindu Kush Mountains. The wind was cold and cutting, the Kevlar vest and winter gear keeping him warm. A terrible feeling crawled through Dakota. They called him “woo-woo man,” because he had a sixth sense about danger and coming attacks. After three tours in the Sand Box with his platoon, everyone listened to him.
They were ready to crest a ridge at twelve thousand feet. Their breath was coming in explosive inhales and exhales. The climb of four thousand feet at midnight to catch the warlord by surprise, would be worth it. Or would it?
Dakota was ready to throw up his hand in a fist to signal stop, to warn the other SEAL operatives.
Too late! Just as the LT breasted the ridge, all hell broke loose. Enemy AK-47s fired. Red tracer bullets danced around the LT. Dakota saw him struck, once, twice, three times. The impact flung the SEAL officer off his feet, sent him flying backward, the M-4 rifle cartwheeling out of his hands.
Dakota grunted, crouched and leaped upward, catching the two-hundred-pound SEAL before he crashed into the sharp, cutting rocks. Slammed backward, Dakota took the full brunt of his LT’s weight. He landed with an “oofff,” on his back, the rocks bruising and biting into his Kevlar vest plates. He heard the two other operatives scramble upward, in a diamond pattern, to protect him and the LT as they skidded out of control down the steep grade of the mountain.
A hail of bullets, screams of Taliban charging their position, filled the night air. The SEAL team held their position up above, firing systematically, picking off the men as they launched themselves at them. Head shots, every one.
Dakota came to an abrupt halt, a huge boulder stopping their downward slide. His flesh was torn up beneath both his legs, his elbow raw and bleeding. “LT!” He dragged the unconscious officer around the boulder for protection. Dakota was their combat medic on the team. It was his job to save the lives of his team, his family. Glancing around the boulder, he saw Mac and Gordy on their bellies, firing upward, taking out every Taliban who surged over the mountain at them.
Hands shaking, he carefully turned the officer over. He’d worked with Sean for five years. They’d grown up together in the platoon. He was twenty-eight and had just married Isabel before going out on this rotation, their first child on the way. Blood gleamed dark along the LT’s throat. Dakota saw where two of the three bullets had struck the LT in the chest. The Kevlar had stopped them from killing him outright.
A loud RPG explosion occurred. Automatically, Dakota threw himself over his LT, a rain of rocks hailing down all around them. He heard Mac yell. The next moment, a grenade was fired by the SEAL. More explosions lit the night on that cold ridge. Rolling off the officer, Dakota heard the throaty fire of the M-4s. Both his teammates were fighting back with fury. He heard their comms man, Mac, call for air support. They needed it.
As he pulled away Sean’s collar in his quick examination, Dakota noticed the terrible wound the third bullet had created as it sped through the side of his neck. Gulping, tears blurring his vision for a second, Dakota forced down his emotions. Rapidly, he applied a battle dressing with pressure to the side of Sean’s neck. He could feel the warmth of the SEAL’s blood as it leaked quickly out of the white dressing and through his fingers. He was going to bleed out, his carotid artery cut in half by the bullet. Oh, God, no, no, don’t let this be! Bullets whined around Dakota. He heard a roar of the Taliban to his right. Jerking his head up, he saw at least ten Taliban rush around the slope from another direction, firing at him.
Dakota had to return fire. In doing so, he had to lift his hand and stop the artery from bleeding out. It was a terrible choice....
Groaning, Dakota awakened in a heavy sweat. His chest was rapidly rising and falling, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Flailing around on his bed, the springs creaking, he tried to run from the rest of the nightmare that dogged him. His heart pounded so hard he felt as if it would tear out of his chest. Throwing off the wool blankets, burning up, he pulled himself upright. The moment his bare feet hit the cold surface of the floor, he opened his eyes. Perspiration ran down his temples. He could taste the sweat at the corners of his mouth. Tears were running out of his eyes and no matter what he did, Dakota couldn’t stop them.
Oh God, no...no.... Sean died right there. Right behind that friggin’ rock in the middle of nowhere. He jammed his palms against his closed eyes, trembling. His muscles bunched and knotted. If only...if only he’d have died instead of Sean. He left his beautiful, pregnant wife behind. Somehow, they got off that ridge before being decimated. The Night Stalkers sent in an MH-47 Chinook accompanied by two army Apache combat helicopters. Making a heroic landing, one of the four wheels on the mountain, the others in thin air, Dakota carried his dead LT and himself on board. Then the other two SEALs jumped off the ridge, slid down the rocky scree and leaped into the awaiting helo. As the Chinook powered up and left the ridge, the Apaches lit it up like the Fourth of July, cremating every one of those bastards, sending them straight to hell.
The shaking wouldn’t stop. Dakota rubbed his eyes savagely, trying to force the tears to stop. Sean was like the brother he’d never had. Sean’s platoon was his family. Burning up. He was burning up. At this time of year, it was below freezing at night, but barely. Why wouldn’t his body cool down? His mind felt spongy. Dakota realized he wasn’t thinking clearly. The nightmare still had its claws into him. Still...
Forcing himself to his feet, Dakota staggered. Dizziness assailed him and he found himself falling backward onto the bed. He hit it with force, one metal leg bending and snapping. The jolt of the bed falling on one side shocked him. Breathing hard, his heart refusing to stop pounding as if he were in the middle of a heart attack, Dakota forced himself to focus. It was something SEALs did well. He placed two fingers on his pulse. It was leaping and bounding as if it were about to tear out of his skin. By now his body should be calming down, cooling down. But it wasn’t. His flesh felt scalded beneath his fingertips. What the hell? And then it hit him: he had a fever. Shit. Doc McPherson was right: infection had set in after the surgery.
Lifting his head, his eyes narrowed, sweat running and following the course of his hard jaw, Dakota tried to think. As he tried to get up, the dizziness felled him. The bed sagged and tipped to one side where the leg had been broken off
. His left arm throbbed like a son of a bitch. He looked at it. The arm had swollen so much that the skin on either end of the tape bulged outward. When he touched it, his arm was hard and hot. Bad news.
Help. I’ve got to get help or I’m gonna die. I’ve gone septic...
Moonlight shifted through the small glass windows, which were smudged with dust and dirt. A flash of white on the wood table caught his wandering attention. Dakota knew he’d never get to his truck, much less drive it down the mountain to get help.
Barbie Doll...need to call her... Said she’d help...
The cell phone lay next to her white business card on the table. Could he reach it? Dakota forced himself up, staggering those five feet to the table. He sat down in the chair before he fell down. With shaking fingers, his mind hallucinating from high fever, he slowly punched in the numbers. Would Barbie Doll answer? Did she really mean what she said? She’d help him if he needed her, or was it just lip service? Dakota had never felt so goddamned useless. He’d been a SEAL. He knew how to survive. And yet a high fever was raging through him, had dismantled him in record time. If that blond-haired angel didn’t answer her cell phone, he knew without a doubt she’d find him dead on the floor when she dropped by at 0700.
His senses began to spin. Dakota tried to focus on the phone ringing and ringing and ringing.... Blackness began to assail him. He fought the fever. Fought the darkness encroaching upon him. He couldn’t see anymore. Everything was turning black. Oh God, I’m going to die.... The grizzly bear had gotten its revenge....
Soft, beeping noises slowly brought Dakota out of the darkness. He heard women’s voices. Far off. Too far to understand, but he tried to listen anyway. He had that familiar sensation, as if he was drowning and swimming toward the surface. It reminded him of being a SEAL frogman. He’d had his LAR V Draeger rebreathing system malfunction at fifty feet in the warm waters of the Arabian Sea during a night mission. Holding his breath, Dakota swam strongly, pushing his flippers hard toward the surface. It was barely dawn, but he could see the light above him through his mask. His chest swelled, he felt the pressure, felt the reflex to breathe. But he couldn’t! If he did, he’d inhale a lungful of water and drown. Struggling, fighting, kicking, he willed himself to hold his breath just as he’d done back in BUD/S in that pool. Was he going to make it?
And then a gentle hand touched his sweaty lower arm. Instantly, it broke the hold darkness had on him. Dakota inhaled audibly, gulping in a huge, deep breath. The fingers tightened a little, as if to steady him, help him to reorient. Yes, the hand was cool, fingers long. He could feel their softness against the dark hair and sweat rolling off his arm.
Dragging his eyes open to slits, Dakota saw nothing but blurred green walls. The hand. That cool, soft hand. He forced himself to close his eyes and concentrate. Between heaven and hell, Dakota fought to move toward the light. Toward that hand that was like an anchor promising him life, not death. His mind churned, hallucinated and then like a tide, flowed out, leaving him lucid for a few moments.
“It’s all right, Dakota,” a voice whispered near his ear. “You’re going to be all right. You’re safe....”
Her breath was warm, a hint of cinnamon on it, maybe. Dakota absorbed her husky, breathy tone, the warm moisture caressing his ear and cheek. He felt her fingers tighten just a little, as if to convince him to believe her. Most of all, he was safe. He felt safe even though he swam in a mix of hallucinations and God knew what else. Where was he?
Shelby kept her hand on Dakota’s arm. Jordana McPherson stood on the other side of the bed, watching him. Lifting her gaze, she met Jordana’s. “He’s coming around....”
“Yes,” the doctor murmured, checking the IV drip that was slugging his body with antibiotics and fighting the massive infection within him. “Finally. He’s past crisis. He’s going to make it.”
* * *
THE AFTERNOON SUN SLANTED through the window near the hospital bed. “It was a close call,” Shelby said in a low tone. She watched Dakota struggling to regain consciousness.
Snorting, Jordana rolled her eyes. She watched the monitors for a moment. “No need to tell you. You’re the one who found him at two o’clock this morning.” She frowned. “If you hadn’t responded to his call, he’d have died. He went septic. I was so afraid of that.”
Shelby noticed the red streaks—a sign of sepsis—running up his left arm. His biceps were sculpted and hard. If a streak had reached his heart, it would have killed him. Now the red streaks were receding. Even in his semiconscious state, with a high fever, there was nothing but pure masculinity about Dakota Carson. The man was in top shape. He wasn’t heavily muscled, just lean and honed like a fine knife blade.
“Okay, monitors are looking better. His heart rate and pulse are finally lowering.” Jordana sighed. “His fever’s coming down and now at one hundred three. And his oxygen concentration is okay, considering what he just went through. Stay with him until he gets conscious, okay? I don’t want him waking up and being thrown into instant anxiety because he doesn’t know where he is. He’s going to be woozy for a while.”
“I’ll stay with him.”
“Thanks. Are you off duty?”
“Yeah, for the next three days.”
“Don’t you love shift work?” Jordana grinned.
“I do.” Shelby gazed down at Dakota, who was still struggling. “It came in handy this time.”
“Tell me about it. If you need me, buzz.” Jordana waved and disappeared out the door of the private room.
Quiet descended on the small room. Shelby shifted a little, keeping her hand on Dakota’s good arm. She wanted to touch this man, this warrior. Her talk with her father yesterday had shed a ton of light on SEALs. And truly, Dakota Carson was a genuine hero. A real warrior. As she gazed down at his pale features, the darkness of the beard making his cheeks look even more gaunt from the ravages of the fever, her heart expanded. She moved her fingers gently up and down his arm. She felt even more drawn to this enigmatic man. This loner who held so much pain deep in his heart. How much darkness held him prisoner? Shelby wondered.
His eyes slowly opened. Leaning down, Shelby smiled, catching his wandering gaze. “Dakota? It’s Shelby. You’re back in the Jackson Hole Hospital.”
His eyes moved slowly back to hers. Shelby felt his neediness in that moment. Her breath hitched. There was anxiety and fear in his expression, turning them a muddy brown color. Without thinking, she reached out and threaded her fingers through his damp, sweat-soaked black hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You had a close call with an infection, but you’re going to be all right.”
Shelby sounded like an angel whispering to him, calling him out of the darkness that still wanted to drag him back down into hell. As her fingers touched his burning scalp, the coolness soothed his agitation, stopped the panic deep in his chest. The look of calm on her face touched him. In seconds, he relaxed. Watching her, Dakota was sure he’d died and gone to heaven.
His voice was raw. In a barely heard, ragged whisper, he managed, “Angel...”
Shelby withdrew her fingers from his hair. “Not me.” She laughed softly. “I’m no angel.”
A sense of warmth, of coming home, stole through Dakota. That half smile of hers, that humored look dancing impishly in her eyes, gave him a sense of peace he’d never felt before. What was going on? He didn’t care. All he could do was absorb her grazing touch across his forearm. It was Shelby, he decided. His mind shorted out, wandered and then came back to sharper focus.
“Wh-what...”
Shelby leaned near, her lips inches from his ear. Quietly, she repeated the information to him, watching to see if his eyes would focus. As she spoke, he seemed to relax. She saw the evidence in the monitors on the other side of his bed. His pulse became normal. His breathing settled. She understood a soft voice could tame a person in shock at an accident site. Knowing this from her own experience, she repeated once again the information slowly.
His gaze follo
wed hers as she slowly straightened, continuing to keep her hand on his arm. His pupils grew larger, as if grappling with comprehension. What kind of anguish was he experiencing right now? What was he seeing?
When she lifted her hand away, he groaned. The monitors chattered. His blood pressure rose, his pulse skyrocketed and his heart started to pound.
Shelby automatically placed her hand back on his right shoulder. The blue cotton gown hid the hard muscles beneath, but she could feel them leap and respond to her touch. Amazed, Shelby watched the monitors stop beeping so loudly. All his functions lowered back to normal. Touch. That was it. A thread of joy coursed through her, sweet and unexpected. Tilting her chin, she gazed at Dakota’s lashes resting against his pasty cheeks. His mouth, once pursed with pain, was now relaxed.
What would it be like to kiss this man? His mouth was beautifully shaped, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. If given the chance, he’d probably be one hell of a kisser. Absently, she moved her hand across his shoulder. His chest rose and fell slowly, no longer swift or moving with anxiety.
She was shaken and emotionally moved by the unexpected experience. Even watching him fall into a deep sleep affected her. He’d been trapped within some unknown nightmare, fueled by the high fever. When she looked once again at the monitor, she was stunned. His temperature had been a hundred and three. Now it had reduced to a hundred and one! How was that possible? Shelby wished she knew more about medicine. She’d asked Jordana later.
The Loner Page 5