Shattered (16 page)

And so she had, which had been a slip. He really didn’t miss a thing.

She thought about how often she’d hated the way men would look at her curves, which had been the bane of her existence since her teens, and not bother to take time to realize that there were some pretty good brains inside her blond head. Then belatedly realized she’d been guilty of doing the same thing with Shane Garrett.

With his gorgeous George Clooney-meets-Brad Pitt looks and phemerones oozing from every male pore, along with the fact that if making love were an Olympic sport, she knew firsthand that he’d own the all-time record for gold medals, it was too easy to overlook the fact that Night Stalkers were the most intelligent unit in the Army, as this man’s surprising JAG background definitely proved.

So he was not just a pretty face.

But that didn’t necessarily mean he was the grand, all-consuming love of her life—Pitt to Angelina Jolie. Prince Eric to her Ariel. Bogie to Bacall.

More like Bogie to Bergman from Casablanca.

“Let’s just say these days I’m more conflicted,” she said mildly, wanting to change the conversation from a subject she hadn’t yet worked out in her own head.

Kirby was grateful when, seeming to sense her reticence, he didn’t push.

Their first stop was at a sporting supply store, where Kirby bought some long-sleeved shirts, pants, and boots. Since a tiny mosquito could be every bit as dangerous as a poisonous viper or jaguar, she was accustomed to wearing protective long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat of the jungle. She’d worn desert cammies in Iraq, but this was her first time in digital woodland camouflage.

And he thought my suit was ugly, she thought as she looked at herself in the dressing room mirror. The unflattering cut of the shirt, and the cargo pants, which while potentially useful with all those extra pockets, added at least ten pounds to her appearance. Which should be a good thing, because she wanted Shane to think of her solely as a team member. Not that sex-crazed woman who’d actually risked sharing a quickie with him in a CSH supply room closet.

Wondering when she’d become such a liar, and deciding she wasn’t going to lose fifteen pounds in the next two minutes, she changed back into her suit. After paying for the clothes, including a pair of gloves and a billed cap, they moved on to the Somersett Piggly Wiggly, where they picked up packages of dehydrated packaged meals, dried fruit, PowerBars, and powdered Gatorade.

“Won’t the others be bringing food in with them?” she asked as he added some processed cheese spread and crackers to the mix.

“Yeah. But you can never count on things working out the way you plan,” he said, tossing in some peanut butter. “Their IBS could get swamped—”

“That’s a Zodiac, right?” Kirby had often thought the entire military establishment would crumble if forced to abandon acronyms.

“It’s SEAL-speak for ‘inflatable boat, small,’ ” he agreed. “But it’s not all that small. It’ll hold eight people and a thousand pounds of gear. Anyway, it could get swamped, supplies could get washed overboard, they might even get caught in a gun battle on their way to the ruins and have to ditch the stuff.”

They made their way through the aisles to the drug section of the store, where he started tossing a selection of over-the-counter medicines—antiseptic cream, antibiotic hand soap, wet wipes, and Motrin—into the cart.

“Like I said, anything can happen so it’s best to be prepared.”

Such attention to detail, she thought, as he snagged a box of Band-Aids, undoubtedly came from his days as a SOAR pilot, where failure to do a complete prefight check could end with a lot of troops dying.

They were at the checkout counter when, on impulse, Kirby tossed in a bag of M&M’s.

It had been so long since she’d had American candy, it was all she could do to wait until she was back in the truck to tear into it.

“Oh, my God.” She closed her eyes as the smooth chocolate melted deliciously on her tongue, and nearly wept. It was that good. “There have been times over the past few years I’ve fantasized about these. But reality is so much better.”

Shane’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Damned if she didn’t look nearly the same way she looked whenever he’d made her come. He’d always known that the former Army doc had a deeply sensual side. However, if he’d known what a sucker she was for M&M’s, he would have bought up every brown package in the Green Zone.

“Would you like one?” she asked.

“Sure.” No way was he going to turn down anything this woman might offer.

The bag crackled as she dug into it, then pulled out a red candy. Reminding him a lot of Eve, when she’d held out that shiny red apple to Adam, she leaned across the center console and fed it to him.

“Damn. Some things never change,” he murmured as he crunched the outer shell.

“I don’t remember M&M’s in the Green Zone.”

Once again, he realized he should have bought her some. Courted her, like his mother always talked about his father having done.

He’d never much thought about his parents’ having dated. Or, God help him, having sex.

His father was a typical rancher—laconic, never one to use two words when one would do, with a simple black-and-white morality that had served him well enough even as the world around him grew increasingly complicated. An outdoorsman who’d rather spend his rare free time hunting and fishing than reading a book, he’d never quite understood his younger son.

But Shane had never, for not a single moment, felt unloved. And looking back on it, he’d come to realize that while he might not recite sonnets, or drive into town for flashy bouquets of American Beauty roses on Valentine’s Day—hell, half the time, if he hadn’t had his kids to remind him, he would’ve forgotten the holiday altogether—Big John Garrett had adored his wife with the same all-encompassing emotion Peg Garrett had always shown him.

With his father not being all that talkative, and his mother being deaf, the sprawling log ranch house Shane had grown up in had probably been more quiet than most. But his parents hadn’t needed verbal conversation for Shane to realize how close they’d been. Two very individual parts of a perfect whole.

Being a SOAR pilot hadn’t allowed a lot of time for introspection. If Shane wasn’t flying, he was practicing flying, or grabbing a few Zs before his next mission.

During his recuperation and all those months of being forced out of the cockpit, Shane had had plenty of time to think, and he’d come to the conclusion that while he might not have figured out exactly what he was going to do with the rest of his life, he didn’t want to do it alone. He wanted that closeness his parents shared. That special intimate connection with another human being.

Which was the only reason he’d gone out on that blind date his friends’ wives had set him up with.

Foolishly, he’d thought she might be the one.

The problem was he’d already had his one.

But thanks to his own dickheaded cluelessness and John Wayne, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” tough hombre, go-it-alone pride, he’d lost her.

Shane had never been one to dwell in the past. It was one of the ways he’d managed to cope with the loss of his leg better than a lot of the amputees at Walter Reed.

Bygones, he’d told himself, when the pity party had gotten boring after a week. The thing to do was to get back on his feet, even if one was artificial, get the hell out of military hospitals, and get on with the rest of his life.

The funny thing was that while he’d moved beyond the amputation, he’d never completely figured out how to leave Kirby Campbell in the past.

He flashed her his most rakish smile, the bad boy, “Wow, are you babelicious, and I so want to do you!” grin that, nine times out of ten, charmed. “I was talking about how easily you could always have me eating out of your hand.”

“I think your mother misnamed you,” she said, the edge in her tone suggesting this one of those rare times the grin had failed to work its bad-boy magic.

“Oh? How’s that?”

He pulled away from the curb, slipping easily into the traffic. There were more cars downtown than usual. Shane figured they must be holiday shoppers. Damn. He’d promised his parents he’d be back at the ranch for Christmas. He’d have to call them before taking off tomorrow morning.

“I’ve never seen the movie, but wasn’t Shane one of those strong, silent cowboy types?” she asked.

“That’s the way I remember him.”

Although Alan Ladd wasn’t John Wayne, his dad had, on occasion, admitted to Shane being an even better movie than Wayne’s iconic Searchers. Hence his name.

“You may have grown up on a ranch. But you’re definitely not like the movie cowboy at all. In fact, you still seem to have the knack for always coming up with the perfect line.”

He’d heard that before, too.

He glanced her over again. She looked exhausted. And oddly fragile, which tugged at some unseen cords and had him opting for honesty, even though she might not be ready for it. Or, more likely, not believe him.

“You want a laconic cowboy, when this op is over, I’ll take you to Oregon and introduce you to my dad. Though, I’ve got to tell you right up front, he’s taken, and I doubt Mom would want to share.

“As for me, hey, I’m a guy.” He put a hand against his chest. “Which means I’ve been guilty of resorting to proven lines from time to time,” he admitted. “But not with you.” Shane was grateful for the sunglasses that hid his eyes, keeping her from seeing the naked need they undoubtedly revealed. “Never with you.”

He hadn’t even realized she could blush. But pink color, just like the flush that would warm her skin when they made love, bloomed in her cheeks.

“See,” she said. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

His dad had always said that when you’re deep in a hole, stop digging. Deciding that was damn good advice, Shane decided not to argue. When he’d been trying out for the 160th, he’d met a lot of pilots who could talk the talk, but fell down when it came to walking the walk.

So, better, he decided, to convince her with actions. Since he wasn’t sure, after what he’d put her through, that she’d buy his words.

As she worked her way through the brown candy bag, a comfortable silence settled over the cab of the truck, broken only by Alan Jackson’s smooth baritone advising Shane to stop running, to spin the wheel and try his luck.

Which wasn’t such bad advice.

Because maybe the country singer was right. Maybe this time it’d be love.

Shane hadn’t been ready to consider that possibility in Iraq. And especially in Landstuhl or during the long, hard months of rehabilitation.

But he sure as hell was now.

Just because Michael Gannon was no longer a priest didn’t mean he couldn’t still receive comfort in the cathedral where he’d spent so many years.

After leaving Phoenix Team’s headquarters on Swann Island, he’d taken the ferry back to Somersett. Before returning to work at the clinic he’d started, he dropped into the church, slipping into a back pew.

The wood was a softly varnished yellow pine, milled from trees harvested more than a century earlier, the leather-topped kneelers worn to a buttery softness by generations of faithful. Including those of his former congregation, who, from what he’d been able to tell, bore him no ill will at having left them.

A sanctuary lamp glowed dimly in front of the tabernacle; votive candles flickered in red glass holders, sending prayers and the scent of burning wax upward. One of those candles in the back row was his.

Well, not really his, but one he’d lit for Dr. Rachel Moore.

Like that copter jockey had said, once you saved a life, it really was yours forever.

And he had saved Rachel’s life. Not only had he held her heart in his hands, but he’d continued to hold it deep within his own heart.

Mike hadn’t known Rachel had been married until their last night together. He’d been brought up to believe adultery was a sin. But at the same time, no way could he ever consider Doctor Rachel Moore a sinner.

She’d been a profoundly spiritual person. Not in the getting-down-on-her-knees-and-praying-every-night way, though, he considered, she might actually have done that. He’d have no real way of knowing, since they’d never been able to spend an entire night together.

It was more that everything she did was for reasons larger than herself. She considered herself merely an instrument to help others, and in the early days of Desert Storm, as a National Guard physician attached to the forward operating 5th MASH inside Iraq, she’d proven indefatigable.

When she’d been brought into the ER, horribly broken and unconscious, as his team frantically worked to save her life, he’d begun making deals with God.

If she’d only open her eyes, he’d never take the Lord’s name in vain again. If He’d only let her live, he’d never miss a Sunday mass, even while stationed here in a war zone. If her blood pressure would only, please, Jesus, rise, he’d give ten percent of his pay for the rest of his life to Catholic Charities.

But despite all his promises, despite putting her on a respirator, the woman he loved beyond reason kept sinking, sliding deeper and deeper into the void.

She was obviously suffering from internal bleeding, a diagnosis that was proven when an X-ray indicated internal hemorrhaging compressing her right lung and heart.

Which was when Michael opened her chest. The procedure was done only as a last-resort measure, but with her blood pressure plummeting and so much internal bleeding, the only other option would have been to pronounce her dead.

Which wasn’t an option.

What he found caused his own heart to nearly stop.

Her left pulmonary vein, which carried blood to the heart, had ruptured.

The good news was the tear was small, which had kept her from bleeding out. More good news was that a piece of bone—undoubtedly from one of her three broken ribs—had lodged in the vein, slowing the flow of blood.

The bad news was that if not fixed quickly, the vein could fully rupture, causing massive loss of blood in a very short time. Also, due to its close proximity to the heart, air could get pumped into her system, risking an embolism.

Which made it extremely dangerous.

And deadly.

As a nurse prepared the suture and Michael clamped off the vein, her heart suddenly stopped.

Much, much later, when the last of the Scud victims had been treated, or their bodies taken away in heavy black bags to be cleaned up before being sent home to grieving families, Michael’s entire body would tremble so badly it was as if he’d been taken over by a virulent form of palsy.

Shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, he’d spend the next five minutes puking up the MRE he’d eaten that morning before the Scud had hit. Which, all things considered, was actually probably the best thing he could have done with the rubbery, greenish ham-and-cheese omelet.

But, in the midst of crisis, his medical training kicked in, allowing his head to stay cool and his hand to stay steady as he deftly injected the epinephrine directly into her nonbeating heart.

It picked up again.

Lub as the atrioventricular valves closed.

Dup as the semilunar valves closed.

Lub. Dup . . .

Lub. Dup . . .

Lub. Dup . . .

It could be a helluva lot stronger, but at least it was beating.

He’d just repaired the vein, which stopped the hemorrhaging, when she went into full cardiac arrest yet again.

The nurse, as good as they came, immediately slapped another syringe into Michael’s hand. He injected Rachel again.

Nothing.

The line on the EEG had gone even flatter than the landscape outside the surgical tent.

Knowing he only had four minutes before she began to suffer irreversible brain damage, Michael injected her again.

Lub . . .

Dup . . .

Lub.

Then silence.

If he’d only been a TV doctor, he could have shouted for the nurse to bring out the paddles, yell “Clear,” and shock her enough to bring her back from the dead. Like jump-starting a car.

She would revive.

Weep tears of joy.

Then, after a beer commercial and a promo for the eleven o’clock news, as the credits rolled, they’d go on to live happily ever after.

Unfortunately, real life didn’t work that way.

Since a defibrillator defibrillates, it only works when a heart is fibrillating. Or, in nonmedical terms, fluttering. But if that were the case, the line on the monitor would show a series of Vs.

This line was, once again, flat.

Which left him with two options. And since he’d already tried drugs, the next was internal massage.

Standard external cardiopulmonary resuscitation—CPR—typically only pumped about ten percent of the usual amount of blood.

But by massaging the naked heart directly, if it worked, Michael could achieve almost normal circulation.

As he literally took her warm and generous heart into his own two gloved hands, Michael played his last card in this life-or-death game with God.

If only Rachel would live and return to the marriage she’d told him she’d planned to try to put back together again, he’d give up medicine and do what his mother had dreamed of since he’d received his first communion at St. Brendan’s cathedral.

He’d join the priesthood.

Which wasn’t that great a sacrifice, he thought as he began to massage. Because the woman lying on this stainless steel table was the only one he’d ever want. The only one he’d ever love.

He’d no sooner made the promise when her heart resumed beating on its own.

Michael held his breath and prayed.

It stopped.

He repeated that sequence six times. And finally, after two hours of massage, the woman he loved more than life itself had stabilized enough for her heart to beat on its own.

Her blood pressure wasn’t as strong as it could be. But high enough.

Her pulse, while still thready, was stronger, and increasingly steadier beneath his fingertips.

She was evacuated to Landstuhl. Although he didn’t risk going to see her, Michael had called daily, using his medical pull to receive reports.

He also arranged for the florist across the street from the medical center to deliver flowers to her room once a week. But he instructed the cards be signed from the entire MASH unit.

After two months, she returned to the States.

Unable to let her just drift out of his life without a final word, he wrote her a brief note, wishing her well. And so she wouldn’t feel guilty about having kept her secret from him for so long, only to dump him, he told her about his plans to enter a seminary. Which wasn’t that much of a stretch, since along with his premed major at Notre Dame, he’d minored in theology.

Part of him had held his breath, waiting for a frantic phone call, or at least an e-mail or letter telling him that she’d made a terrible mistake, that he was the only man for her, and would he please reconsider his plans so they could set up a shared practice in some small bucolic town, where they would never again have to care for victims of war, and live happily ever after making babies.

But instead, all he received was an equally brief, polite letter thanking him for saving her life, and wishing him well in his new vocation.

And that was that.

If there’d been times when he’d wondered if he’d done the right thing, he’d pushed the doubts aside. He had, after all, been a good priest. He might not have the family he’d fantasized with Rachel. But he did have his flock.

Although the bishop had, on more than one occasion, accused him of being too independent-minded, too outspoken, and occasionally troublesome, his parishioners at St. Brendan’s had liked him. And Michael had been proud of the job he’d been doing, which easily made up for the chiding phone calls from his superior.

Then Katrina came barreling through New Orleans. Unable to resist the scenes he was seeing on television in the rectory he shared with two other priests, Michael asked the bishop to temporarily transfer him to Catholic Charities, which the older man was more than happy to do.

He’d heard, through the diocesan gossip grapevine, that the cleric had claimed it was killing two birds with one stone by helping victims of the worst disaster in the nation’s history while ridding himself of a pesky thorn in his side.

It had taken Michael only a week running a homeless shelter to realize that he’d rediscovered his calling. While he’d never really regretted taking Holy Orders, it had crossed his mind on more than one occasion that making deals with God under pressure wasn’t exactly the same as a vocation.

His vocation was getting hands-on with people. Helping them physically at the same time he was helping them spiritually. Which was why, after returning to Somersett, he’d informed the bishop he was leaving to open a free medical clinic in an abandoned storefront across the street from the cathedral.

The bishop had not tried to talk him out of his decision.

So he’d been happy in his work.

Happier than he’d ever been. Happier, really, than he’d ever hoped to be.

There was only one thing missing. As he watched his brother, Joe, with his pregnant wife, Laurel, and his sister, Tess, with her husband, Gage, Michael had been thinking more and more about the life he’d once fantasized about with Rachel.

And now Rachel was single again.

Which meant she was available.

As soon as he and Phoenix Team rescued her from the rebels who were holding her hostage.

And this time, Michael vowed, as the candle flared, seeming to echo the strength of his conviction, he was going to keep her.