Page 5 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

Hunt grinned. “She’s monitoring all of us. Be happy you aren’t married to her. She keeps track of every scar, cut, and bruise. God forbid I get shot. She’ll be impossible.”

Tommy laughed. “We need Lucky Charm’s kind of fussing.”

“Don’t disagree.”

“Hold that promise for what it’s worth.”

Hunt waved the man off. Doogie came to his cage. “IQS exercise, huh?”

“Yeah, let’s take it to the training area where we can talk without being overheard. Anything on tap?”

“Nope. Asia is in a twist about COVID. But LT Stemmons found me. Told me to tell you to keep your hands off his people. I thought he was talking about the gossip, but the man believes you want to snag Deter.”

Hunt sat in the chair in his cage and rubbed his chin. “He doesn’t fit on this team, and I wouldn’t have him under any circumstances. We have no open slots anyway.” He didn’t know Gil Stemmons well and was mildly offended he hadn’t kept this conversation LT to LT instead of pulling in Doogie.

“No, we don’t.” The grim set of Doogie’s jaw raised alarm bells.

“Have you heard something?”

“Nope. But we should discuss this with the whole team.” Doogie moved to his own cage next to Hunt’s.

“For what purpose?”

“In case he tries to get somebody bumped.”

“How and who?”

“Deter’s not in an explosives slot on five. He wants one. K-Rock is explosives. Our newest team member.” He stopped abruptly, obviously choosing words carefully.

Hunt ground his teeth. Deter wasn’t known for his open mindedness about gay team members. “Hell, no. There’s no justification for that.”

“Let’s make sure we’re airtight.”

He hated this shit. He truly did.

“I should sic Cait on Deter.”

Doogie snorted, then outright guffawed. “Oh, please do. Even injured, she’ll rip him apart.”

Hunt stared at K-Rock, prepping at high speed the way he usually did. The man didn’t go slow unless it involved diffusing a bomb.

“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.

Afghanistan. The airman had been assigned to her transport detail,and he’d snagged her attention.

A young man, not even twenty, she’d admired his clean-cut face, his polished military look, and his concentration.

The explosion had ripped through him, disintegrating his body.

Cait saw it but hit the health center brick wall with the force of a speedingHumvee.

How did she remember that moment so clearly when others were fractured?

Here he was in his last moment. She’d drawn him with the same focus, same spit and polish, same discipline in his posture. In memoriam .

Tears should flow, but the hurt swelled, creeping into every corner of her mind, her body, herspirit, and the sorrow jammed in her chest. One more thing too heavy to carry.

Phone propped beside her, she hit the button to video call Jackie.

Jackie’s smiling face popped onto the phone screen. “Finally, we can talk.” She peered closer at her face.

Cait’s struggled against the tears and cleared her throat, but she could never fake things with Jackie.

“Honey, are you okay?”

“Bad memories. Really bad ones. It sucks. I need some grounding.” She dropped the drawing pad off the bed. “Hunt’s back at work. For once, he didn’t ask anyone to come sit with me. Honestly, it’s a bit overwhelming.”

“He’s worried still. It’s going to be a long time for both of us before we can relax. I fight wanting to call you every hour. The only thing stopping me is I figure you’re sleeping or should be.”

“Physical therapy is kicking my ass. The hip is improving, but I need a new assessment of my shoulder and arm. The headaches are killing me, too.”

“It’s only been ten weeks since the injury. These things take time. Especially with as hurt as you are.”

“I can’t exist here. I can’t. I have to push forward if I’m going to recover. I have to.”

“I’m not arguing the goal. But we are all more worried about the healing for your arm, shoulder, and brain. You’ll get squared away. Don’t push it. It’ll be a bad mistake.”

Cait stifled a sigh. Jackie wasn’t wrong, but there was nothing normal about lying in bed all day with minimal movement. Yes, her body still hurt. Yes, sleep was necessary. But she needed stamina too, and it was being sapped away by mending bones. The inactivity wasn’t helping the dreams either.

“How are the headaches?”

“Easing a bit but striking when I least expect it.” She shifted aside the pillow, turned sideways to the screen, and balanced on the edge of the bed. Jackie grinned at her.

“Yay! Good for you!”

“We’re cheering for sitting? I can walk to the bathroom.”

Jackie grinned. “Any progress is good progress.”

“Now if I could walk without limping and holding on to furniture.”

Jackie shook her head, but her amused grin faded into a serious, worried face. “This is tough. I wish I could take some of this away. But I can’t.”

Cait shoved her unruly hair away from her face. “I’m whining because I can. I try not to when Hunt’s around. He’s already doing so much.”

“You can call and whine to me any time.”

A strong knock sounded on the front door.

Cait stared through the bedroom door to the entry and counted the steps in her head. Oh Lord, here she was complaining when she froze at answering the front door.

“I gotta go, Jackie. Somebody’s at the door.”

“Take it slow and easy and text me. Don’t overdo. Naps are okay.”

She was tempted to say she wasn’t five, but she remembered waking up in the hospital and seeing the devastated panic on Jackie’s face. “Yes, Doctor, I will. Watch it be a magazine salesperson.”

“Better not be.”

“Later.” She disconnected and grabbed her crutch, her stomach tumbling with nerves.

Another knock sounded.

“Coming,” she called, hesitating over the steps.

When had she gotten so sensitive to strangers in her space?

She didn’t want to be alone, but the thought of anyone seeing her scars, her pain, her weaknesses made her flinch. Once again, she faced the uncertainty and fear that haunted her since Afghanistan.

Another knock on the door made her heart race. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called again.

She carefully planted her feet after every shuffled movement and leaned on the crutch under her right arm.

She did a quick survey of the gray sweats, baggy shirt, and crappy hair.

Unable to do anything about it, she took measured, painful steps to the door.

She had so far to go to recover. She wasn’t stable, and the fear of falling was real. She wouldn’t be able to get back up.

Finally there, she blew out a huge breath and leaned against the hard wood to rest.