Page 18 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

Hunt snorted at the comment. Stifling the impulse to slam the motherfucker into a wall, he let it slide. The man had no idea. Cait would be the first in line to kick his ass if his head wasn’t in the game. What was this obsession with his marriage? Christ.

He let the man walk away angry and stayed behind for a few minutes to analyze if he could have handled the situation better. The first pass was no, and the second pass was hell no!

Master Chief appeared at his elbow. “That one is gonna cause trouble.” The older black man grinned at him. “Stomp on him.”

Hunt snorted. “Your best advice?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hunt had been enlisted once upon a time, and he appreciated the recommendation from an experienced hand. “I’ll get on that, Master Chief. Thanks for your space.” He shook the man’s hand and followed Stemmons to the practice area. He climbed the command tower and stood next to Brennan.

Jack’s grim face matched his. “Whatever you said to him, smoke was coming out of his ears.”

“Essentially, stop all this crap or I will.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Okay. I’m on board. Are we stepping into this?”

“No. Hernandez is.”

“I’ll bet he loved that.”

“Yes, because he hates poor performances, but no because this isn’t a mess of his making. Stemmons didn’t like it much either. Watch him.”

“Sounds like he pissed you off, too.”

“Jack, never bring a man’s family into a professional conversation. It’s a bad, bad idea.”

“I’m not stupid, LT. Besides, I like Doc.”

They both went silent as a new practice round started. Hunt studied Stemmons on the deck, observing from the sidelines. He would take his own advice and mentor Stemmons until he had no choice but to become a better lieutenant.

Hunt kept an eagle eye and assessed. Brennan cataloged all the activities. By the fourth time – better.

Still not good enough. Not even close for Senior Chief either.

§§§§§§§§§§

November 2020

Eleven Months Since Injury

? A New Rank, A New Weight ?

Hunt kept Cait’s hand in his as they made the way through the crowd to join the team. Her touch reminded him that, since his last promotion, his foundation had changed. While promotions ceremonies honored achievements and carried a sense of celebration, this one spurred moments of sober reflection.

Spotting Senior Chief Hernandez, he shifted course to get them to the edge of the group.

Gil Stemmons was the first to greet him, triggering irritation. He locked down anything but respect.

“Lieutenant.” He shook the man’s hand because it’s what you do.

“LT, congratulations. Good work.” His eyes shifted to Cait. “I don’t believe we’ve met Mrs. Hunter.”

Hunt released Cait’s hand to slip an arm around her waist. She’d forgone the heavy black shoulder brace for a deep blue paisley sling to support her hand.

Her simple sky-blue sheath hugged her curves, the color lighting her eyes.

“Cait, this is Lieutenant Gil Stemmons. Stem, my wife, Dr. Cait Hunter.”

Cait had on her doctor face as she returned the greeting, and amusement flushed out the ill-will. Cait could take care of herself in this realm.

Doogie came to their side and kissed Cait’s cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Doogie.” She winked at him.

“You ready, LT.” Doogie shook his hand.

Hunt kept his reply succinct. “No choice now.”

Stemmons wiped a hand over his mouth. “Wow, inspiring, LT.”

He managed a neutral face. “Reflecting on how many lost lives are standing with me today.”

Cait slipped an arm around him, squeezing his waist. “They’d be proud of you.”

Hunt caught the noise level shift, the sense of celebration tempered by respect for the ceremony.

Conversations tapered off, chairs creaked as people found their seats.

Formation began. He took Cait’s hand and led her to their place.

The Executive Officer stepped to the mic, voice carrying in the outdoor public address system.

“All hands, attention to colors.” The orders snapped with intent. The Color Guard marched in with sharp, synchronized steps. The U.S. flag led, followed by the Navy’s blues, the gold trident of Naval Special Warfare Command, and the California bear snapping in the breeze.

Hunt closed the door on images of the little boy who’d chosen long ago to become a SEAL and the hardened warrior who hunted terrorists. This meant everything to him. His last promotion had been halfway around the world, sand in his teeth, gunfire not far off.

The anthem swelled over the speakers. Hunt locked his gaze on the stars of the flag and repeated the promise he’d made the day he joined the Navy. Smart. Steadfast. Strong.

Today the vow had different weight.

The Commanding Officer rose. After introductions and comments from other command staff, he announced the first promotion.

“Lieutenant Travis Hunter, please step forward.” Hunt left Cait’s side and went to the podium.

The CO reviewed his stations, deployments, and commendations.

The official language skimmed over blood and loss, helicopter crashes, and a doctor’s sweet hands. The orders came next.

“The President of the United States has reposed special trust and confidence…”

Hunt knew the words by heart but listened to each one.

Cait stepped forward when called. Lieutenant Commander Scott joined them on the stage. Hands steady, Scott helped Cait remove the silver bars and position the gold oak leaves. Her fingers lingered while pinning one on each side – a silent, reverent message of support.

“Lieutenant Commander Travis Hunter, SEAL Team Three.”

Applause broke like a wave. Hunt shook Scott’s hand, took Cait’s arm, and moved off the stage. The CO called the next name, but Hunt’s focus shifted.

He held Cait to his side, grounding himself in her steady presence.

This promotion marked more than a new rank.

It was a promise of a shared life, personal and professional.

As he made his way to Doogie, he was aware of the other promotions and the applause.

Satisfaction washed over him. He’d worked hard and earned this respect.

The joy of the moment wove itself into the quiet support of teammates, friends, and family, washing away difficult memories. Time for new ones.

§§§§§§§§§§

? Hold On, Feel Again ?

The next day, Cait struggled with the clip for her long blonde hair.

Stifling the constant frustration with her dead hand, she let her hair drop and paused in the kitchen doorway.

Her husband shuffled methodically through mixing ingredients in her favorite yellow mixing bowl.

Crispy bacon, cooked to perfection on a baking sheet, cooled on the stove.

The waffle iron on the counter gave away his intent.

He had yet to go to Coronado and was making her breakfast. Be still my heart .

“Lieutenant Commander, please note it’s not fair to tease me with the aroma of bacon before I’ve had coffee.” Hand on her hips, she evaluated the state of her kitchen and the man in it. He was nothing if not organized and neat.

He tipped his head and gave her the once over, lingering on her red QM polo. “New?”

She dropped her clip on the counter and fussed with how the shirt tucked into her slacks.

“Yes, red is medical. Think aircraft carrier designations. Quaid and Mackey wear black. Well, Quaid mostly wears suits. He meets the clients. Operatives are in navy blue, operations white, armory is green, training is blue, Elizabeth and Celissa wear purple for admin. So on and so forth.”

She turned this way and that. “Not an Army uniform, but it’ll do.”

He looked her over again. “I like this much better.”

“These are supposed to be our professional wear. You sure?”

“I’m the man who fell for you on first sight. I’m sure.”

She went to him and kissed his cheek. “You cooked?” She snagged a piece of bacon and munched.

“Yes, waffles and bacon. Might even put whip cream on the waffles. Going for celebratory here. You want your hair up?”

“Yes, in a minute. You can cook for me anytime.” Cait opened a cupboard for a coffee mug. White-hot stinging spasms jerked through her left elbow and shot down her arm. She gripped the counter.

Painful pins and needles assaulted her dead hand. “Aaagh, my God.” She bent double and cradled her arm against her stomach, lungs seizing from the burn.

Hunt grabbed the waffle plug and pulled, turning it off mid-waffle. A second later, he slipped his hands to her waist. “What’s wrong?”

Tears flooded her eyes. “Pain. In my hand.”

“Your dead hand?” He hovered close.

Cait flexed her fingers and hissed, knife stabbing pricks attacked tissue and nerve. “Yes.”

“9-1-1?”

She forced herself to take air in small, gulping increments, dizziness swamping her. She leaned into Hunt. “No.”

Putting hands on her hips, Hunt walked her to a kitchen chair. “Sit.”

“I’m okay.” She bit her lower lip.

“No, you’re not. You’re pale and trembling. Let me get some water.” She shut her eyes while he went to the fridge for a bottle. The stinging ebbed letting her draw a breath, but the respite didn’t last. A brutal wave shot through her.

Groaning, she used her good hand to massage the fingers, praying for relief.

Skin too sensitive, her nerves screamed.

She dropped her forehead to the table and used her good hand to cradle the bad hand.

She wanted the feeling to return, but was this it?

Was this as good as it got? With all the one step forward-two steps back of her recovery, being hopeful felt like a sham, a joke, a mistake.

Hunt ran a gentle hand over her shoulders. His solid presence made her want to fold into his lap and have him make it better. She followed the instinct.

Reading her intent, he sat and settled her against him, safe in his lap with arms tight around her.

He kissed her temple. “It’s all right.”

“It hurts,” she whispered. Deep, fractured breaths tore from her throat, words choppy against the hot pain.

“Good.” Hunt eased a hand against her nape and rubbed with a light touch.

“How the hell is this good?”

“Because it means it’s not dead anymore, Cait.”

“The nerves aren’t healed, yet.”

“It’s closer, though. The feeling is channeling as it should. Pain killers? You still have some?”

Cait straightened in her chair. “I have a prescription from my neurologist. He was more optimistic than me.”

“Let’s get it filled and give him a call.”

She looked into the eyes of the man who always stood by her. His green eyes steady, she snagged hope. “Let’s do it.”