Chapter 3

He doesn't so much as flinch as I slide the needle beneath his skin to start his IV. "Hold that bag above your head," I order, shoving the pouch of blood at him. I can see from the amount of blood covering his uniform that he's lost too much.

"Isn't that your job?" he grumbles as he lifts his arm above his head.

"I'll gladly hold the bag while you stabilize your leg."

He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back down on the backboard. There isn't much I can do for his leg mid-flight. It needs to be cleaned, disinfected, and pieced back together with painstaking care by a surgeon. I'm mostly trying to stem the loss of blood.

"Fuck my leg! Help him. Help my buddy."

His hand that isn't holding the bag of blood is gripping the hand of the man next to him.

I have to shout above the roar of the blades. "There's nothing I can do for him! He's gone. And if I don't work on your leg, you will be too."

Untying the ruck sack from beneath his knee, I strap a plastic splint to his leg and tighten the tourniquet. Fragments of bone stick out in every direction, and his torn skin hangs like a tattered rag. The other leg is most likely broken, or at least fractured, but there's no blood. Running my hands over his shin, I check for obvious breaks, but come up short.

I douse his leg with saline solution, and his scream pierces through the chaos surrounding us.

"Hand me that saline," another medic insists, and I pass it to him. He's working on another soldier with a gunshot wound to his shoulder.

"Give me something for the pain," my patient begs. His voice is shredded from the agony wracking his body.

"Can't give you much more than one shot of morphine. Your blood pressure is tanked."

"Fuck that," he pants. "Don't care if I die, just don't want to die hurting this bad."

My protective instincts fire up. "You're not going to die. Not on my watch." I stab the top of his thigh—the only part of his leg left intact—with an injection of morphine. His face is ravaged from pain and grief, and I lean over him, looking directly at him. "You know, all this blood really brings out the color of your eyes."

He cracks his eyes open and squints at me. They're hazel. Muddy green with flecks of gold. I was only making a joke to take his mind off the pain, but his eyes really are beautiful.

"They're my best feature." He tries to smirk, but his mouth pulls into a tight, straight line.

His grimace makes my chest flood with sympathy and concern. He's a soldier, a warrior, and I know that for every ounce of agony he's feeling, his face is only showing a tenth of it.

"Are you flirting with me, soldier?"

His laugh morphs into a wet cough that makes his body shake, increasing his misery tenfold.

The blood seeping from his leg in multiple places is lessening. Maybe he won't bleed out before we get back to the base.

"That was a hell of a jump." It takes enormous balls to jump thirty-five thousand feet into a hot zone under enemy fire.

"Looks like it was my last one," he wheezes.

"I hope not. I bet you're a hell of a soldier."

I can see the FOB coming into view as our helo descends. There's already a team of soldiers rushing toward the tiny airstrip in anticipation of our landing.

"We're about to touch down. Keep that bag raised above your head unless someone takes it from you."

"Yes sir," he rasps.

I wrap my fingers around his wrist, the one holding onto his buddy's lifeless hand. "You're gonna have to let go, soldier." He gives me one small nod, and I take it as permission, tugging his hand from his friend's and taking possession of it. "You can hold mine instead," I offer.

I'm surprised by the strength of his grip in his condition.

"Don't… Don't let me go."

He licks his bottom lip and his tongue sticks. I realize how dry his mouth must be and how much care he needs right now beyond life-saving measures. There are currently eighteen hundred soldiers stationed at this base, and I'm responsible for keeping each and every one of them healthy, but right now, this guy, this hand gripped so tightly in mine, is the only life I care about. If I let go, he may not make it. I don't think I can live with that on my conscience.

This is my fourth deployment in thirteen years. I've saved many lives, and I've lost many lives, but I absolutely refuse to gamble with this man's life.

"I'm right here, soldier. I won't leave your side."

Things move quickly after that. We rush the patient into the medical bay where I assist a doctor and a team of nurses as we try in vain to piece his leg back together again. After an hour, the doctor raises his head, catching my eyes across my patient's body. The look on his face says it all. He shakes his head minutely. There's nothing more we can do for him. He backs away, peeling off his gloves. The place looks like a battlefield, littered with bloody gauze, latex gloves, and the detritus of plastic packaging.

The infusion of blood I gave him in the helo stabilized his blood pressure enough that he could sustain another injection of morphine. It was enough to partially knock him out so we could work on his leg, but it's beginning to wear off now. The nurses move around me, cleaning up and checking on the other patients. He opens his eyes, looking high as fuck. They're glassy and the whites are now tinged red. The first thing he does is grab my hand and squeeze.

"Did you fix me?"

Sometimes, I hate my fucking job. My heart pounds as I wonder how to tell him. I've delivered bad news to hundreds of patients, maybe more, so why is it so hard this time with this man?

I don't even know him.

"There's nothing we can do here. You have a ride back to the States in a few hours, at first light. There're two other soldiers going back with you that need more help than we can give them here."

"Back to Bragg?"

"That's right. Womack Army Medical Center will take good care of you." If anyone would know, I would. When I'm not deployed, I work there.

"Where'd they take my buddy?"

"He'll be riding back with you to the States."

"Yeah, in a box."

His voice breaks on the last word, and tears gather in his eyes. He glances down at his leg. It's bandaged and splinted as best we could.

"Look, I know it hurts. I've been there. I lost a buddy." My throat feels swollen with emotion and it's hard to swallow. "It hurts so fucking much, and… there's nowhere to put all that pain; it can't even fit inside of you. You gotta let it out."

He looks away, scrunching his eyes shut to stem his tears. "Just go. Leave me alone."

That I can't do, even if I was inclined to. He's shaking off the morphine and the shock, and I've got to monitor him to make sure there are no side effects or that his blood pressure doesn't crash.

"I told you I wouldn't leave you alone. I'm staying."

"Go, I said!"

His scream is broken as he falls apart, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I pull the curtain around us, which is all the privacy I can offer him. Pulling up a chair to the side of his gurney, I take a seat and grab his hand again. His sobs become louder, and he gives in to his heart-wrenching agony, finally falling apart. It sounds messy as he wails miserably for the friend he lost, for his leg and his career, for the drop in adrenaline and fear that kept him going for the past two hours. His raw emotion brings mine to the surface, and I fight back my own tears.

It's impossible for me to remain unaffected by the sound of his bawling. His pain is so palpable I can almost feel it. The nurse in me wants to take away his suffering and heal his wounds. I want to soothe his broken heart and give him back everything he's lost. But the soldier in me knows none of that is possible.

"Tell me about your friend. What was his name?"

"Brian Biddell. After boot camp, we were stationed at Bragg in the same barracks. God, he was fuckin' annoying. Showed up everywhere I went. Figured it would be easier to just make friends with him than to keep avoidin' him."

There was a note of humor in his voice that underscored his sadness. "Sometimes those turn out to be the best ones." A thin line of white foam had gathered in the corners of his mouth. I push to my feet, trying to untangle my fingers from his.

"Don't go," he says, sounding panicked.

"Just gonna grab you some water. Your mouth is dry."

The roar of the C-17 thunders overhead. I move over to the supply cabinet to grab the water as medics usher in two more soldiers, fresh from the fight. Voices outside grow louder, and I duck my head out the door to see that the sun has set. The sky is a painted canvas of dark purples and blues. The two new patients are sorted by the nurses, so I grab the bottle and return to my patient.

Uncapping the lid, I slide my arm beneath his head to prop him up and tilt the bottle to his chapped lips. "Take a sip."

He manages to take a tiny sip, but most of it dribbles down his dirty chin. Setting it aside, I resume my seat, and he grabs for my hand again. The bar patch sewn onto the breast of his uniform says Marsh. With the hand he's not holding, I dig his dog tags out from under his shirt and read the name engraved in the metal.

Rhett B Marsh. He's twenty-three, and his blood type is A-positive.

"Rhett, huh? Nice to meet you. I bet there's gonna be some people back home happy to see you return."

"My mama is gonna kick my ass. She made me promise not to get hurt."

I crack a smile, imagining this tough-as-nails soldier being dressed down by his mother. "I'm Riggs."

"Riggs? Hell, that's even worse than Rhett. Did your mother not like you?"

His sarcasm makes me chuff. "That's my last name. First name is Navarro."

He barely manages to nod. "What do they call you for short?"

"Riggs," I crack, trying to keep a straight face.

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a semblance of a smile. "My mama, she's a real southern belle. Her favorite movie is Gone With The Wind. "

I recall the B on his dog tag. "Let me guess, your middle name is Butler? Like Rhett Butler?" I'm just cracking dumb jokes because I want to see him smile again. A full one this time.

"You guessed it. But don't tell anyone. That's my darkest secret."

"Get the fuck out of here," I choke. "For real?"

This time, both corners of his mouth curve. "Cross my heart."

"By God," I breathe. "A real southern gentleman."

I think he tries to laugh, but coughs instead. "Never said I was a gentleman."

"Yo, Marsh! You in here?" The voices come from the door, and I guess it must be his buddies coming to check on him.

"Sounds like you've got company, soldier." Why am I still calling him that now that I know his name?

I slip my hand from his grip and push to my feet to give them the chair.

Rhett turns his pleading eyes on me. "You'll be back, right?"

"Yeah, I'll be back." His transport doesn't leave for eight more hours, and I plan to spend them with him. I'm on shift all night anyway, with nothing but time on my hands. But even if I weren't, walking away from him just feels… I just can't do it.

I busy myself with paperwork, updating his chart while he visits with his friends. They're loud, and I can hear their voices drift across the med bay as they try to rally his spirits. They're juiced on adrenaline, high from the fight, and even though they all just lost a good friend, they're choosing to focus on the one they've still got left instead of bringing him down with the pain of Biddell's loss.

I've got to respect that about them.

Reading over his stats, I realize how close I'd come to losing him. His blood pressure hadn't just tanked, it'd been in the damn toilet. He lost a lot of blood. Thankfully, no arteries were severed.

I hadn't met Rhett Butler Marsh until today. He's a stranger to me. So why can't I walk away? Why am I committed to sitting by his side, holding his hand, and bearing witness to his tears, until I board him on the transport?

He has a beautiful face; harsh, rugged angles softened by plush lips and thick, dark lashes. It's a face I never want to haunt me in my dreams. But if I'd lost him today, he surely would. Every night of my life. Just like Mark Grainger.

Leaning against the counter, I watch him with his buddies. His arms are down by his sides, not gripping them for dear life. His mouth is pulled into a tight line, grimacing through his pain as he tries to put on a good face for them. Totally opposite of how he was with me. He fell apart in front of me, not afraid to show me his pain. I think that was the moment that solidified my need to protect him. My chest feels heavy, and I rub the heel of my hand over my heart as it begins to burn.

Why am I so afraid of losing you when you're not even mine?

When his buddies clear out, I drift back over to his side, and he automatically reaches for my hand. He grits his teeth, talking through them.

"Am I gonna lose my leg?"

"I'm no surgeon, but… I've seen a lot of bad breaks, and this one is?—"

"You're also not a fuckin' recruiter, so don't blow sunshine up my ass. Give it to me straight, doc."

"Most likely, they'll be able to fix it, but afterwards…that's when the danger sets in. Infection, gangrene…" Please God, don't let him lose his leg.

Rhett turns his head away. "I'd rather fuckin' die."

Red-hot anger surges through me. I grab his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Don't you fucking dare! I busted my ass to keep you alive, and you're gonna fucking live, dammit. Don't cry like a pussy over a broken leg, soldier. The rest of you works just fine. I know plenty of guys who live a full, happy life with just one leg. Be grateful you're still alive!"

Tears stream from his bloodshot eyes and I feel like a world-class prick.

"I'm…" he coughs and then winces from the way it shakes his body. "I'm scared."

I can see it in his eyes—stark, naked fear. "The worst of it is over, soldier. It's all downhill from here." A total fucking lie, but it's what he needs to hear right now.

His lids grow heavy, drooping to half-mast, and he maintains eye contact with me until his lids close slowly. Once he's fully knocked out, I check his vitals again and swap out the bandage on his leg. Rhett sleeps fitfully, jerking and mumbling, his face drawn tight. I want to ease his pain, to smooth his features and comfort him. If we were just two guys in a bar, I would love to see him laugh, to watch his eyes shine with life and mirth, to experience the full assault of his personality. Rhett looks like he would be a real charmer. If only we cou—but no, we're not just two guys in a bar. He's my patient who's fighting for his life, who just lost his friend, and in seven hours, he'll be gone, and I'll never see him again.