Page 122 of Luck Be Mine
“They will.” He knew the team was leaning on him, but he wouldn’t show any cracks in their brotherhood.
“Let’s resolve the psych eval then.” He pulled the file. “Let me ask these questions. Answer truthfully.”
He went through a checklist, and Hunt answered, mostly honest. If he fudged a bit, it was to protect the team. McIvers pondered for a few minutes and stared at his notes. Hunt sat back in the chair, taking a slow breath and trying not to show any nerves.
Ivers closed the file and studied Hunt’s face. “I see no reason to take you off operational status. You’re not any better or worse than any other in the same situation. But you have to tell me if any issues compromise the team.”
“Agreed. Thanks.” He held his posture, projecting confidence even as he internally sagged with relief.
The man leaned forward in earnest. “But maybe strength is letting someone help. You came here for her. Stay for yourself. Because she can’t emotionally carry you forever.”
Hunt swallowed, letting his love for Cait dictate his response. “When’s a good time to come again?”
Chapter Nineteen
◊ They are SEAL Team Three ◊
Cait pulled into the driveway and parked next to Hunt’s truck. Since Baxter’s funeral three weeks ago, she’d barely paused to clean her car or run it through a car wash. Maybe there was someone whose name was “Bren” and “nan” who would take care of that. “If he can scrub the driveway, he can do my car.” Cait gathered her bag.
During normal day shifts at the hospital, chaos was a given. Today, when she wanted immersed in the no-think-time drama, there hadn’t even been stolen sandwiches, dropped bedpans, or two-hundred-pound meatheads. To say she was moody wouldn’t come close to her mental state.
She paused before getting out of her seat and took stock of the curb. The entire team was here. Lovely. Cars lined the street like drop-off time at school. Was this good news or bad news? Regardless, it was time to send the boys home.
“They have to figure it out,” she muttered, slamming her door.
Instead of opening the garage, she went up the walk to the porch. Thanksgiving was close, and she wasn’t ready. Her to-do list needed out of her head and onto a piece of paper.
Her phone rang. “Perfect.” She struggled with the side pocket of her bag and juggled the device into her hand. Mackey.
“Yes, Bossman. I just got home from the hospital.”
“I found him.”
Cait’s bag dropped from her hands and thudded on the ground. “You what? Where?”
“East Village.”
“Is that where he is now?” With hands empty, she punched in the code on the new front door locks and bent to scoop up her purse.
“Yes, I don’t know how long I can hold him. Can you meet us?”
She took two steps into the house, let everything drop onto a side table, and followed voices to the living room. “I can’t go down there. Hunt will have a stroke. Further, I need the man to talk to me. It’s not like I can say trust me, and he’s going to go for this whole plan.”
Seven sets of eyes stared at her.
Her husband’s brows raised. He crooked a command finger for her to come to him.
“Hold please, Mackey.”
“Cait!”
“Hold.” Her moodiness brought out her firm voice in a room full of tough men. At this point, she didn’t have two cares to give.
She glanced around quickly, noting expressions, then was distracted by the clean house.
Hunt’s stare lacked patience. “What is your husband going to have a stroke about?”
She rolled her eyes. “They found Delaney.”
