Page 2 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

He hadn’t any more than tucked the covers gently around her than there was a tap on the front door.

She stirred a bit, but he laid a gentle hand on her head. “Doogie. No worries.”

She sighed again and her tension eased, asleep in seconds. Thank God. The pain would reach out and bite her later but couldn’t prevail against exhaustion.

He quietly shut the bedroom door behind him.

A quick peek in the peephole confirmed the visitor. He opened the door, awash in relief. Chief Warrant Officer Two Warren Dugan stood on the other side with two bags of groceries.

“What did you buy? I said coffee.”

Doogie snorted his opinion of the idea. The muscular, Black man wore cargo shorts and a gray and silver etched Mardi Gras t-shirt. He powered his way through the door only to stop short in the kitchen doorway, his expression torn between horror and gleeful judgment.

“Oh, my man. We gotta do something about this. You have a woman in the house now! You have nothing here. Do you even have a frying pan?”

Hunt pressed a hand to his face, half in shame, half trying not to laugh.

“She’ll need chocolate and healthy stuff, and something besides coffee to drink, and have you two even eaten anything not in a restaurant or a fast-food place in the last couple months?” He shot Hunt a look that said how are you still alive ?

Hunt stepped back and pulled out the chair from the table, sinking into it with as much fatigue as Cait. “It was a bit of a grueling trip, and the answer would be no.”

“Well, good news. I brought the fixings to make you homemade tacos and guac.” Doogie flicked on the kitchen light and settled the bags on the counter. “If I can find a frying pan.”

The plastic grocery bags bulged with milk, cereal, fruit, toilet paper, and a host of not yet identified other things.

Hunt groaned. “I have one. In the cupboard. Not that I ever eat here.”

The man turned with mock alarm, scanning the room like he expected disaster in every corner. “You do have a bed, right? She’s not in there curled on the floor, is she?”

Hunt took the hit of sarcasm. “She’s curled on a queen size bed fully made and sound asleep.”

He stood, stretching to wake muscles.

Before he got too comfortable, he needed to do a couple things. “Stay with Cait. I need to go to the apartment office, get my wife added to the lease, and unload the truck.”

Doogie’s eyebrows lifted. “You have too much satisfaction in your tone saying the wife word, and how much could there be to unload?”

“Only our bags. Won’t take me long.”

“Take your time, bro. I must find things in your kitchen.” The man would face a ten-day seek and destroy mission with more enthusiasm.

Hunt got to his feet and grabbed his keys. “Asshole.”

“I’m not the one without even a potholder.”

“Make a list and take care of my wife, please. That’s the one thing I do have that you don’t.” Hunt smirked and went to the door.

“Rub it in, mister.” Doogie froze and gave Hunt the evil eye. “You’re not getting any, are you? Because if you are, I’ll beat you to a pulp. Let the woman heal.”

Hunt flipped him off. “I can take care of my wife. No worries there,” he promised, softly.

He did have certain urges, but what he wanted wasn’t sex. He wanted her whole again. The feisty woman from Afghanistan. Not this pale, hurting version of her he cradled like the teddy bear he never had.

Hugs had never made things right in his young world.

Maybe now they could.

“You know I’m kidding, right?” Doogie came in behind him. His friend had been at his back so long he didn’t even jerk when the hand hit his shoulder.

“Yeah, keep it up. I need some normalcy. So does Cait.”

“Her I can handle. A few phone calls to my mama, and we’ll get her squared away.” Doogie’s mama, Adele, was a diva of the finest order. If she was in Cait’s corner, they would have no worries. “Get your errands done. I’ll text you if she wakes.”

“She won’t. She’s bone tired. I’ll tell you the rest when I get back.” Hunt left.

Even with Doogie on watch, it wasn’t easy to walk away – but that was being her husband now.

Halfway down the iron stairs, his phone rang. Scott.

He pushed the button to answer while walking. “Commander.”

“Welcome back to San Diego. I trust all is well.”

“Yes, sir. We made it safely.”

“How is Doc?”

“Tired. But holding on.”

“Good. I wanted this to wait until you come back to work next month, but I don’t think it should. I don’t want you to hear it anywhere else.”

“Hold, Commander.” He stopped at the bottom of his stairs and nodded at a neighbor entering her apartment. He moved quickly across the freshly paved parking lot to his truck and slid into the seat, closing himself in the quiet, private space. “Neighbors, sir. I’m in my truck.”

“Not staying home?”

“A couple errands to run. Doogie’s staying with Cait. What happened?”

Scott didn’t waste words. “The explosion that killed the service member and injured Doc at the Bagram health center was IQS connected. Not enough left of either suicide bomber, but there’s info tracing to his group. There’s other tendrils intelligence is still tracking.”

IQS. Ibrahim Qurban Sadozai . A terrorist famous for attacks across Asia into the Middle East. The activities had pushed the man to the top of the Department of Defense most wanted. His favorite target – U.S. military.

Hunt’s team had found him. Ordered the drone strike that killed him a few weeks ago. Right before Cait had been injured in a bombing. She’d looked IQS in the face during a medical mission.

Hunt took the punch and ground his teeth against strong emotion. “Do we know who executed it? Have they connected the action to our presence in the mountains? To Cait seeing him?”

“Undetermined. The drone killed many of his upper people. The Afghans are checking their sources, but so far investigators are sticking with the idea it was planned prior to the drone strike.”

Hunt straightened in his seat. His thoughts rolled one over the other. “Results classified?” He went silent for a second, at war with his conscience. “Never mind. I’m not going to tell Cait anyway. It serves no purpose, and she’s got other things to worry about.”

Scott’s tone stayed neutral. “I agree. The results don’t change things.”

Hunt wrestled strong emotions bubbling to the surface. He killed people for a living and lived in gray areas where some died and others would not.

Cait’s injury twisted his gut.

The weeks he’d sat by her bed, willing her to survive, still tore through his fragile emotions.

He wasn’t currently some invincible SEAL.

He was a man trying to be a good husband with no clue how to handle the wreckage.

If he saw the bastard again, he might go at him and ignore the consequences.

But that would get him killed, and Cait would be hurt and alone.

“Thanks for the info, Harrison. I appreciate it.”

“See you at work soon?”

“Yes, I’ll be in within a couple weeks to update paperwork and get oriented. We have a lot to work out.”

“Let me know if I can help. Talk soon.” Scott disconnected.

Hunt needed a minute in the silence of his truck to argue with his need to be an honest partner in his relationship with his wife and his protective reaction that said shield Cait.

She didn’t need this information. It would not help.

She didn’t talk about IQS.

But she dreamed pretty bad stuff. PTSD and TBI headaches leveled her.

Hell, he dreamed fucked up stuff, too.

So far, he’d been there to wake her, talk with her, and hold her. Conversely, her hand on him could spring him from his brand of bad.

Was he justified in keeping this secret compartmentalized when she had clearance for it?

Or was he being too protective and destroying trust before they even got to their three-month anniversary?

§§§§§§§§§§

? Home – Five Days: Seeking Comfort ?

Cait gently squirmed in search of a less painful way to lay and sighed against her pillow. This was the first real ease since the explosion. Home. Safe. Alone with Hunt. No nurses. No fussing.

Her injuries and the pain nagged, churning deep anxiety and frequent tears. She hid those as best as she could.

But her broken hip throbbed, stiff and healing.

Her lungs worked if she didn’t breathe too deep. As a doctor, she knew the long-term risks of lung injury. As a patient in recovery, she was terrible at coping.

The rebuilt shoulder joint with broken clavicle – painful, inflexible. There was enough plastic in her shoulder to rub against bone, and it did. Too many metal screws made the ache intensify. Move wrong and pain slammed her like a hammer.

Her left fingers were still numb. Part of her arm, too.

Nerve damage yet to be assessed.

The worry about her surgical career ebbed and flowed with every jolt of pain.

She dreamed. Not good dreams. Jumbled ones. Many memories floated in those dreams, unconnected with a linear timeline. Part of the traumatic brain injury. Headaches were commonplace.

Most haunting were the moments of weightless flight, the slam into the brick wall, and the loss of Hunt. Each moment was wrapped tight in a mind too broken to face the fear.

Still, on good days, a combination of rest, medication, and safety at home anchored fragile comfort.

The pillow smelled like fresh laundry soap and her husband. A small smile escaped.

A bag rustled in the kitchen.

She lay still. Movement was madness. He’d come to her. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere.

He padded into the room. The man moved like he belonged in the silence. He’d already surprised her with a television. It was mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Muted colors of the fish screensaver danced on the screen.

She yawned and, daring herself to try, stretched in incremental moves. Slowly. Carefully. “Hunt, what are you doing?”

‘Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to wake you. Happy New Year!”

She lifted her head a fraction, swallowing a yelp at the jab of pain in her skull. Hunt’s back was to her, blocking whatever the surprise.