Men of Mercy: The Complete Story

by Cross, Lindsay

  “You plan on staying in my classroom all weekend?” The professor's gentle voice broke through Hayden's thoughts.

  She kept her eyes locked on her textbook. Professor Latham could sniff out sadness better than a bloodhound. “Just wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything.”

  Professor Latham slid into the empty seat next to hers, stretching his long legs out straight and crossing his ankles. “I know you felt like I was singling you out, and in a way, you might be right. You know, subconscious behaviors and all. But I meant what I said. I’m worried about you.”

  He had her best interests in mind, she knew that. She really did. He'd done everything he could to help her and mentor her, and in return, she tried to be the very best research assistant she could be. “Why are you worried?”

  His hand covered hers, warm to her cold. “Because I've come to think of you as a granddaughter. And I might be closer to seventy than thirty, but I’m as shrewd as ever. Even a man who’s as nearsighted as I am can see you're still hurting.”

  “I'm fine, really. I was just having a bad day last month when I confided in you. I needed to clear my mind. But I’ve felt a lot better since then.” She'd broken down like a blubbering idiot in his office.

  “I don’t want to overstep, but when is the last time you had a date?”

  Hayden gave a shaky laugh and pulled her hand away, closed her book and shoved it into her backpack. “I can't even count on one hand the number of dates I've been on.”

  “It doesn't work if the number is zero. I couldn't count either.”

  Hayden paused, instantly loving and hating the man. “I'm busy. I work at the Java Shop part-time, and I'm in your lab at least half of the week. I don't have time.”

  “And what if Hoyt asked you out again? Would you make time for him?”

  Her heart froze into an ice sculpture, cold and brittle.

  What could she say? Of course she would. She'd drop everything for him. Still. Always. But it would never happen.

  “Sometimes it's not just the person who suffers from PTSD who's the victim. The people around him can be just as impacted by post traumatic stress disorder. It's been months, but you're not moving on...and you're not making progress. You're too young and too smart to get stuck in a battle you’re not equipped to fight.”

  The professor's words took a hammer and chisel to the weak walls of her defenses. Hayden made a show of zipping up her backpack, hiding the tears stinging her eyes. At least the room was empty except for them.

  “I'm not trying to fight for him. I haven't even talked to him.” She shot to her feet. Pick, pick, pick went his chisel. Let’s play the game of dissecting Hayden and her ongoing obsession with a broken man.

  He told you he didn't want you. Move on. Special Forces soldiers who've been through what he went through never come back whole. The memory of her brother's words drove the chisel even deeper, breaking open a hole in her chest. The anger she'd buried inside erupted.

  “How can you say I'm stuck when I haven't even seen him?”

  “Because you haven't seen anyone else.” The professor stood up beside her, but his own tone stayed calm. Gentle. Well, it wasn't his heart that had shattered.

  “I don't want to see anyone else.”

  The professor took her hand and the understanding in his gaze nearly broke her. “I know. I know how hard it is to move on when you lose someone you love. Just because Hoyt didn't die, doesn't mean he's not gone.”

  She cracked, a sob broke free. “He's not dead. He's not your wife.”

  “No, he's not. My wife had a much more merciful ending than Hoyt did. Her life was over in a second.”

  Hayden was breathing fast and sharp now, the tears tracking down her cheeks.

  “He saved me,” she said. “You don't know this, but a while ago I screwed up - big time. I slept with a married man, my brother’s best friend. His wife found out, everyone found out. They shunned me, and I can't blame them. Hoyt was the only one who stood by my side. He made me remember my own worth.” Tears pricked her eyes as she said it. She would never forget what it had felt like to be the subject of all those accusing eyes, all that gossip. “How can I just give up on him?”

  He'd never given up on her.

  “Because his trauma isn't the result of a bad relationship. The only way he can overcome something like that is through intensive therapy and years of counseling. You can't pull him out of that pit, not you alone. And it doesn’t sound like he’s ready to get the help he needs.”

  He took her hand again. “All I’m asking of you is to stop pretending to be a normal college student and actually be one. Go out, meet new people, live a little…And if Hoyt is as strong as you think, you'll be here when he's ready.”

  “But what if I'm not ready?” The words gushed from somewhere deep in her subconscious.

  “You are ready. You just have to trust yourself. I know you can be an amazing psychologist, but in order to graduate and help others through their problems, you have to work through yours first.”

  Hayden pulled free of his grip and wiped her face dry. “I might try going out more often.” She could relax and make casual conversation about...whatever. It didn’t matter much, did it? No one's life would be at risk if she inadvertently said the wrong thing. The stakes in the real world weren’t the ones her brother, Hoyt, and the rest of Task Force Scorpion faced in their line of work. They went to the places normal people didn’t go, willingly putting themselves in danger to protect their country.

  “That's better. Now, I know there must be any number of functions this weekend you could attend to seek out new beaus.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Professor, it's 2015, not the fifties. There are parties. There will be guys there.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I'm afraid my last date pre-dated your birth, and possibly your parents'.” He put a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, his tan corduroy blazer stretching with his movement. “Is there a party you could...ahem...scope out to meet guys?”

  “Hasn't anyone told you that you're supposed to be a stodgy old professor?”

  The room filled with Professor Latham's deep laugh. The sound bounced off the walls and ceiling and landed right inside Hayden's chest.

  “Of course. And you know as well as I, that I listen as well as you do.” Hayden moved in for a hug, and the scent of pipe tobacco and old spice wrapped around her. She didn't have a grandfather, not a real one. Professor Latham was as close as she was going to get. “My friend and I met a guy at the coffee shop, and he invited us to a party tonight. My friend’s been trying to get me to go.”

  “Does this young gentleman have a name?”

  “Chance.” Hayden tensed, knowing what the professor would say before the words left his mouth.

  “So will you give Chance a chance?”

  “That has to be the cheesiest line you've ever given me.” She stepped back and adjusted her backpack.

  He just grinned. “Now tell me about this Chance. Is he a suitable candidate? Does he converse well? What is he studying?”

  For her, Chance was more defined by what he was not than by what he was. He was not over six feet tall, not packed with muscle. His hair was not wavy, honey-colored, or softer than goose down. But he did look a little bit like Hoyt, which was both appealing and ultimately dissatisfying.

  “Well, if he’s not your sort, there will undoubtedly be other men at this party,” Professor Latham said. And just like that, he had her smiling again.

  Professor Latham was the anomaly at the college. Clean shaven, neatly trimmed hair. Suit jackets, even if they were a screen shot from the fifties. The complete opposite of the majority of her professors who'd somehow gotten stuck in the time warp of the sixties hippie revolution.

  Not that there was anything wrong with that—except for their adamant belief that deodorant was poisonous and taking a bath too many times a week was unnatural.

  Professor Latham always smelled like Dial soap and t
obacco.

  “Professor?” A young guy poked his dark head through the door. Malik, a Ph.D. student also working with Latham. He and Hayden had spent hours in the lab, working on research, and yet she didn’t know much about him. “Are we going to start this project tonight?”

  Malik's dark gaze found the professor’s before sliding over to Hayden. “Hi.”

  His look said so much more. She hadn’t really noticed him as a man before, and she definitely hadn’t noticed the intensity of his attention to her. Despite his English accent, Malik was of Middle Eastern descent, with midnight black hair and golden skin. He looked good, well dressed, sweater, slacks. Slim but not skinny.

  The complete opposite of Hoyt Crowe.

  Hayden cleared her throat. “Hello. We were just chatting, but I'm done with him. He's all yours.” Hayden made a move for the door, her steps somehow lighter despite her heavy backpack. It felt good to be admired by a handsome man.

  “Malik, I've had something come up,” Professor Latham said. “I'm sorry, but I need to cancel our research tonight.”

  Hayden and Malik both stared at the professor. He never cancelled.

  Ever.

  “Everything okay, Professor?” Malik stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

  “Yes, of course. Everything is fine. But you know, I feel bad for dumping you like this. Hayden's planning on going to a party tonight, why don't you go with her?”

  Hayden stiffened. “I'm sure Malik doesn't want to waste his evening with me.”

  Malik's face flickered with surprise. “A mind reader already?”

  “No. Just trying to save you from throwing away your plans on me.” Hayden felt herself blush.

  “And why would you think I wouldn't enjoy the pleasure of your company?” His eyes twinkled a little as he said it.

  A groan worked its way up her throat, but Hayden cut it off fast. Instead of letting her ease into the social pool, he was dunking her into it.

  The professor pulled her in for a quick hug and whispered in her ear, “You can't just sample one guy. Besides, Malik has been making googly eyes at you for months.”

  “I'll get you back for this.” Hayden whispered, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't hold on to her aggravation.

  He stepped back and gave her a wink that would have put Peter Pan to shame. “Well, I'll leave you two to make your plans. I've got a date.”

  “A date?” Hayden said.

  “A real date?” Malik echoed.

  Professor Latham grabbed his briefcase off the stage. Then, as if he hadn't just dropped a nuclear news bomb, he headed to the door. “With Professor Rhoden.”

  The bomb detonated, sending both Hayden and Malik stumbling back a step.

  Malik made a strangled sound. “You mean Kathy Rhoden, the Abnormal Psych professor?”

  The professor opened the door and stepped into the hall. Then he stuck his head back in. “I do.”

  The door clicked shut on the beginnings of a whistled version of “My Girl.”

  Only Professor Rhoden didn't have blonde curls and enormous blue eyes. Not even close. The feminazi's short gunmetal gray hair could make steel bend. And then there were the tattoos curling up her arms and the black combat boots that seemed constantly glued to her feet. “He's got to be joking,” Hayden said.

  “I guess I kind of saw it coming. She's been pursuing Latham for a while now.” Malik tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rumpling the bottom of his sweater.

  “She'll pulverize him.”

  “Or she'll be the one woman strong enough to help him move past his wife's death.”

  Malik's words gave her pause. Had Professor Latham chosen bachelorhood because, like her, he'd never been able to move on?

  All of a sudden his earlier comments hit home. The professor had zeroed in on her situation because he had been in the same rut. He'd been stuck on a woman who died two decades ago, just like Hayden was stuck on a man who was dead on the inside.

  Both of them needed to find a way to move forward.

  “I have to work tonight, but he’s right. I’m planning on going to the Sigma Pi party tonight. I'll probably be there about ten thirty.”

  “I'll see you there.” Malik's expression was warm, and his gaze lingered on her.

  A wave of uncertainty washed over her. Was she really ready to move on? Could she?

  Or did she want to pine for a man, who had no interest in moving on, for the rest of her life?

  Hayden lifted her chin. “I'm looking forward to it.”

  Chapter 4

  Hoyt stalked from his Jeep to the large tan metal building that housed Task Force Scorpion's headquarters. The command center was located in the dead center of their newly acquired property. Hank James, Hayden and Hunter’s adoptive dad, had retired from farming and had acres to spare, so he made the huge donation to TF-S. Although their true headquarters was at Fort Granada about thirty miles away, this outpost allowed them more freedom of movement.

  Hoyt couldn’t complain. He fucking hated sleeping in barracks. Half those bastards took a bath about once a week, and after about ten seconds of being locked up with the smell of unwashed armpits, spit cups, and cigarette smoke, he wanted to puke.

  Besides, the mere thought of sleeping on the bottom bunk made him feel like he was slipping into a splintered pine coffin.

  A hard chill hit him and Hoyt braced a sweaty hand on the heavy white security door. Tight spaces made him nervous. Hell, being inside his own bedroom made him nervous.

  Their commander had called the meeting early, which more than likely meant Hoyt’s team mates were back from Afghanistan with new intel on Al Seriq, the terrorist leader of the Islamic State of Afghanistan (ISA), they’d been tracking for years. A mission Hoyt hadn’t been allowed to go on.

  He needed a minute to get his shit together. He'd been skating on the thin ice of sanity for the past few months, and if he walked into this room with so much as a twitch, Colonel Grey would slap him with a medical discharge.

  Which would mean no more military and no more legalized killing.

  Shit. The only thing that would make him feel better was a hot Afghani roof and his sniper rifle hugging his shoulder. After so many months of inactivity, his trigger finger had one hell of an itch. There was something so satisfying about sighting an enemy combatant at long range and taking the fucker out before he could harm US troops. Besides, he had to get the hell out of Mercy. He'd done his best to avoid Hayden since the incident, but this small town seemed to shrink each day. He'd bumped into her twice. Each time her scent had enfolded him in a warm hug and her big Colorado-sky-blue eyes had nearly taken him to his knees.

  Not that he'd even spoken to her. No, he'd all but run, acting like a freaking acne-covered pre-teen would near a super model. Hoyt let his head hang and scrubbed a hand down his clean-shaven jaw, his fingers bumping over the cavity of the scar that ran the length of the left side of his face. Shit, next to him, acne looked pretty.

  Get it together, asshole. Hayden isn't yours anymore.

  Hoyt checked the urge to slam his fist into the door and straightened. He just had to keep it cool for a few minutes. Download the brief on the mission and then hop on a C-130 to Kandahar. He punched the security code into the small silver pad on the right of the door, took a deep breath, and strode into the command center.

  “Jesus Christ.” Ethan Slade, recon specialist and gunnery Sergeant, straightened from the oval-shaped white table at the back of the room. His shaggy black hair was pulled into a low ponytail at his neck and a thick beard covered the bottom half of his face.

  Hoyt cracked a twisted smile, knowing that it looked more like a feral distorted grimace. “Don't like my new haircut?”

  Ethan had been on the reconnaissance mission longer than the rest of the team. This was the first time he’d seen Hoyt since Crowe Mountain. Since the incident.

  Ethan eased toward him like he was getting up close to a hung
ry tiger. “Shit man, they said it was bad, but...” His words trailed off mid-sentence. “How are you handling it?”

  Hoyt planted his feet and faced his friend, stuffing down the urge to come back with some smart-ass remark, trying to remember how to keep his shit under control. And not explode on his teammate. Not that he'd learned any communication strategies during his forced stint in the VA psych ward. They’d basically just shoved bottles of pills at him and told him to forget about being sliced and diced. Pretend like a weeks' worth of torture never happened.

  After a month, Hoyt had told his newest intern psychologist to go suck a pistol.

  He'd deal with shit in his own way. And there was no damn way it would involve a life spent popping one antidepressant after another. He was done with that.

  “None of your business. Why are you back? Did you find Al Seriq?” Hoyt skimmed a hand over his freshly shaved head. He still wasn’t used to the loss of his long blond hair. Blond hair that Hayden used to run her fingers through and exclaim over its silkiness. Every time he’d done the same he’d thought about her, so he’d taken a razor to his hair to amputate the memory. Then he’d made Jared take him to the tattoo parlor to get the two large scorpions inked on his arms. He needed the daily reminder of his reason for living. As sniper, he was crucial to his team.

  “Listen man, if you ever need to talk, I'm here, okay?”

  Hoyt was across the room in an instant, standing toe to toe with Ethan. “You want me to talk about how my cousins cut me up? Or should we go all the way back to childhood and discuss how my aunt and uncle tried to starve Jared and me to death? No, wait a minute, I’ve got it—you've been through the same thing right? Yeah, let's talk about it. Someone in your family try to kill you too? I'm all ears.”

  Ethan took a giant step back, hands up, palms facing out. “Just offering to help.”

  Hoyt closed the gap between them again in one menacing step, thinking long and hard about planting his combat boot in his teammate's face.