Page 15 of Luck Be Mine
“Let’s get out of the building.”
“With you.”
Hunt shut his cage and went to claim weapons. “Meet in fifteen in front.”
He needed air and time to process.
The only way to win this was to keep being the most professional, flexible, organized along with the most trained, reliable, and responsible resource. He honed his skills to a competitive edge because that was the way to defend the country and not die.
Stay above the fray because nothing was different.
Except he’d killed a terrorist and gotten married. First his wife, then a team member? What next?
§§§§§§§§§§
Ten Weeks Since Injury
◊ Family Matters ◊
Early morning light peeked through the white bedroom blinds and left dancing shadows on the wall. Finally awake, Cait’s love/hate relationship with Hunt’s bed reared its ugly head. Though soft andprotective of her aching body, the bed only amplified the restless need to move – even though slow, easy movements were necessary.
Hunt left for work early. Only his third day back, and she was already tired of the dark morning routine. Silent dressing, softly kissing her forehead, a coffee pot hiss, and she never heard the front door close, but she heard the lock click. Today, the reality of being alone for the first time since she got hurt layered on and slammed into her full force.
Hernandez’s wife had stayed with her Monday. Tommy’s wife visited yesterday. Today, she insisted he let her try. Anxiety pummeled her confidence, waves of frustration rose, and yes, she’d say it. Fear squeezed her throat. The last time she’d hadthis much difficulty getting around her emotions her father and little brother had died.
She threw the covers back. “Oh no, no, no. I am not reliving those moments.”
Taking long minutes to stretch her legs, hips, and back, she eased out of bed and visited the bathroom. Her confidence shook like a leaf in a windstorm. She’d had enough success in physical therapy to know what was possible, but the ‘you can do it’ chant wasn’t working well.
After glacial moves to the kitchen, she eased back in bed with coffee on the nightstand and heaved a sigh.
She lifted herdrawing pad and the pencil bag, desperate to lose herself in the soothing hobby. God bless her husband – for the art and the coffee. She flipped open a clean page, selected an 8Bpencil with her fussy artist brain, and made her mind empty. Even strokes, a bit of shading, grand plans. Forcing everythingaway, she tapped her mouth with her pencil.
She drew quietly, letting lines and shadows take place. Time passed unnoticed.
She stilled and huffed.
Hunt’s gun safe.
Of course.
In her line of sight. Subconscious drawing. Back to that cave. That choice. Hunt’s very nature.
“Oh fiddlesticks, Cait. Not the plan.” She sipped her coffee, cooled but not cold.
Irritability dictated she tear the page up, but her practicewas always to leave them in the book. She dated the corner, then smoothed thepage over.
Clean white. Pencil changed. Second chance. She started again.
Faces. She loved drawing faces.
Letting her mind empty again, she drew the curve of a cheek, the lift of a brow, the outline of a camo uniform.
Engrossed, she stopped to study the lines and sucked in a ragged sob.
I know him.
Airmen Rusty Dent.
