Jane's Long March Home

by Susan Lute

  But it'd turned out to be a dead end. Coming to a halt just inside a room that still bore the odor of fresh paint, Jane sneered at her own naivete.

  She was a Marine. Ooorah. Marines didn’t give up. It looked like the time to beg had come.

  She turned slowly. A couch and two chairs lounged around a heavy square coffee table, facing a large fireplace. Bookshelves leaned against the wall next to her.

  There was no television or computer in the room, which seemed odd. Russell struck her as a Saturday sports kind of guy. Decked out in earth tones, the only other color in the room was a tall stack of books on the floor next to one of the chairs.

  Except for the stack, the room had a silent air that said a lot about the man. In other circumstances, Jane might have been interested in finding out why he didn't spend enough time in the appealing room to even leave a discarded glass or piece of mail.

  If this were her home, with its quiet, tranquilizing feel, this room would be her favorite. It was a place where troubles wouldn’t intrude and secret dreams would dare to come out of the dark where they were hiding.

  She flipped back the cover of the top book, Treatment Strategies For The Country’s New Walking Wounded, by Dr. Chase Russell. His book.

  She snatched it up. The cover fell open to the dedication page.

  This book has been a labor of love, and is dedicated to my family; my Mom and Dad, Elaine and Mike Russell, and my brother Nate. You’re my bedrock.

  Jane’s anxiety slipped unguarded into temper. She flipped to the index. The man was a freaking expert in the field of treating military personnel returning from war with symptoms of post traumatic-

  The book abruptly flew from her hands.

  She whirled to face Russell. His face impassive, he put the tome out of reach on the bookshelf.

  “Hey.”

  “That’s not very interesting reading. I have a Tom Clancy in that stack you might prefer.”

  Her temper tied Jane up. She didn’t understand. If he was so clever at treating soldiers with her problems, why did he live on a rundown ranch in more need of repair than she was? More important, why was he so determined not to help her?

  Holding onto her tumbling emotions, she locked her jaws until they ached. If she wanted answers, staying in control - a challenge at the best of times – was her only recourse.

  “Actually, I’m a huge fan of Anne McCaffrey and Katie MacAlister.”

  His eyes never left her face. Attacked by a sudden awareness she didn’t want, she glanced around the room, her gaze lighting on a photograph on the mantle.

  Space. She needed some space before she said the heck with it, and grabbed his shirt and dragged him close to discover if he tasted as good as he looked.

  She edged away to study the photo closely.

  Whoever had taken the picture had captured two young men, one of them Russell looking much younger. He was clowning around, his arm locked around the neck of the other one, free hand curled in a fist, playfully aimed at his smiling hostage’s stomach.

  The grin reached the younger Russell’s eyes. How had the lighthearted, laughing guy in the picture become the withdrawn, resigned man behind her? Maybe the answer lay in the dedication in his book. “Nate?”

  He nodded.

  Filing the information for later, she moved on to the only other adornment in the room. Two ink and pencil drawings hung on either side of the fireplace. In the drawings, two young children bearing a remarkable resemblance to the young men in the photograph played in a park.

  She raised one brow in Russell's direction. The hard lines around his mouth softened. “My mother drew them. When we were kids, after school, we’d go to the bookstore she and my dad owned, to do our homework. Sometimes we’d look up and there she’d be with her sketch pad.”

  At the wistful look on his face, Jane went still. That back door she was looking for creaked open, but Russell didn’t let her linger there.

  As quick at he’d opened up, he changed back into the perfect host. Aloof and all business. “There’s a television in your room. I left a heating pad on the bed.”

  Her patience, what little she had left, snapped.

  “I don’t get what your problem is. You have to be at the top of your game to get a book like that published.” She waved a frustrated hand at the book he’d taken. Like a full blown hurricane, her turbulent emotions broke free of her fraying restraint. “So, is this the end of the road for me? What am I supposed to do? Lay down my gun and surrender?”

  Russell moved fast, so fast Jane didn’t see him coming. His large hands dug into her shoulders, his eyes losing that yummy shade of brown she’d come to expect. “This is the end of the road only if you want it to be. Don’t ever give up!”

  Caught by surprise, she put a hand against his chest and pushed hard. She could feel the heat of his body through the cotton shirt. The accelerated thump of his heart captured the unwanted girl that still resided in Jane.

  Which was crazy. No man had ever reached that deep inside her. “I don’t want to, but if you won't help me-”

  She left the sentence unfinished.

  He forced out a breath. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not what you need.”

  “What I need?” Jane didn’t like the sound of that. Not once since she’d accepted she wasn’t the kind of kid prospective parents lined up to adopt, had she needed anything or anybody. That's what made it that much harder to admit her failure to Russell. “I thought I could do this on my own. Get better. But, I can’t. Everything’s wrong. I can’t hold it together.”

  “Nightmares?”

  The strength of his frowning stare gave her courage. She allowed one shaky jerk of her chin.

  The hands on her shoulders dropped. A sigh escaped his chest. “I had a very successful practice in Seattle, treating soldiers with problems-”

  “Like mine.”

  Russell nodded. “One of them was Nate.”

  “Your brother?”

  All emotion stripped away, he stiffly recited as if reading from a case file, “One night, I was hosting a party to celebrate the success of my recently published book.”

  His lip curled derisively. “There I was, having a grand old time. Local booksellers came, and a book reviewer from the Seattle Tribune. My agent and editor had flown in to discuss an interview request from a national television station.”

  He paused. Jane leaned against the cold fireplace. So far, she couldn’t see a down side, or what had made Russell drop everything and start over so far away from his family. In fact, if what he was saying was true, he should be proud of what he’d accomplished.

  “I turned off my cell that night - ignored, missed, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter - the call from my brother. After the party was over, Mom finally got through. She and Dad had taken Nate to the hospital for a drug overdose.”

  Jane’s shoulders stiffened as she watched her hopes for Russell’s help go down the drain.

  “After that, I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be responsible for saving fractured lives. So, I bought this ranch and walked away. I can’t trust myself, and you sure as hell shouldn’t either.”

  The stubbornness that had gotten her this far straightened her spine. “You just told me not to give up. Are you only good at giving advice?”

  His burning gaze narrowed on her. “you shouldn’t have to settle for a therapist who’s made such a mess of his own life.”

  Silence stretched between them as Russell waited for her judgment, but Jane didn’t have any to give him. How could she condemn his actions, when hers had almost resulted in the death of a whole compound of people? She was at least responsible for the death of the homeless boy she’d taken under her wing.

  Linus shouldn’t have died. If she’d only been quicker, talked faster, she could have extracted him from the bomb that had been meant to take out the embassy.

  So, she had failure in common with Russell. She could see it in the self-condemnation etched int
o the sharp planes of his face. But it wasn't enough, was it?

  Still she fought for the life she wanted back. “I’m sorry about your brother. I have a feeling, if it were me telling you that story, you’d say, something like, life happens. There’s nothing you can do but move on.”

  Russell’s lips twitched. She couldn’t keep the corners of her own lips from shifting in response.

  “You’re pretty good at this. Are you sure you’re the one who needs counseling?”

  “So they tell me.” Dispirited, Jane backed into the hall. “I’ll pack my gear and be out of your hair first thing in the morning.”

  Later, flipping to his back in an futile effort to find the sleep eluding him, Chase attempted to erase from his overactive mind the look of defeat on Jane's face when she’d finally accepted he couldn’t help her.

  When he heard the creak of her bed, followed by the sound of channel surfing, he stared at the ceiling lit by the moon from the window. Jane Donovan had more spunk and courage than any woman he’d ever met. It would not be smart to change his decision.

  He turned onto his side, finally drifting off to sleep with the image of the Marine front and center in his mind - all starch and vinegar on the outside, vulnerable pride on the inside.

  His dreams morphed as he slipped into a cold hospital room, where he used every argument he could to talk his little brother into putting the bottle of pills down.

  It wasn’t until later, when he was startled awake, drenched in a chilling sweat, that he realized Nate’s face had morphed into Jane’s wounded blue eyes, and it was she who called out to him, a desperation in her trembling voice he could no longer ignore.

  CHAPTER

  IV

  The next morning, Chase had to see for himself that Jane was okay. Hearing the low sound of the television, he knocked softly on her bedroom door. When there was no response, and with his nightmare still fresh in his mind, he inched into the room.

  The sight that met his eyes had his pulse taking off like a rocket. The sheet, barely covering her essentials, slipped even more as the Marine shifted restlessly in her sleep. Her blonde hair stuck out in long spikes on the pillow. His stomach flip over in a sudden hunger that had nothing to do with a desire for breakfast.

  As quietly as he’d opened the door, he closed it. The last thing he needed was to think of Jane Donovan as anything other than a client. He sighed, resigned, because sometime in the night, he’d decided to work with her.

  He'd have to keep a professional distance, something he’d been unable to do that with Nate, but he didn’t kid himself. It wouldn’t be easy.

  Everything he’d been taught said he shouldn’t have been treating a family member, but his brother had refused to see anyone else. Caught between his professionalism and his love for Nate, Chase hadn’t been able to turn his back on a soldier’s suffering then, either.

  This time, he couldn’t assume he had all the answers. He couldn’t look on Jane as anything other than a patient. Someone who needed his expertise. Even if the vulnerability she covered with that tough-as-nails Marine armor made him want to scoop her up and do more than simply console her.

  When she wasn't down for breakfast by the time he was finished, he left a short stack of pancakes in the microwave, and a note instructing her to come to the bunkhouse when she’d eaten.

  It was disconcerting to discover he wanted to make sure the Marine got three square meals a day; that all he could think about was how to make the challenge of facing her fears easier; that he was hoping to draw another one of those tiny smiles out of her.

  At the bunkhouse, while he waited for Jane to surface, Chase considered her treatment plan as he swept debris into a pile in the middle of the floor.

  When he'd had his practice, he’d earned a reputation for being ruthless when it came to getting results from the not always compliant walking wounded. His uncle knew that, which was why he'd sent his Marine all the way across the country and placed her in his care.

  Well, Matt had gotten his wish. When they were done, he’d send her back to active duty with the skills she needed to see her through the hard times. Living, moving beyond the tragedy still wouldn't be easy, but she'd have a running start.

  At the thought there would come a time when he wouldn’t be around to help her though those new challenges, a surprising, uncomfortable clink sounded against the wall he'd erected so he could be her counselor.

  “I’m ready to leave.”

  Chase glanced up at the woman so completely taking over his thoughts. She stood in the doorway he’d left open.

  Birds chirped in the yard behind her. Dust particles settled between them. The clean scent of her recent shower assailed him. Back-lit by morning sunlight, she looked like an angel.

  Stick to the plan, Russell.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned on the broom. “I’ve decided to help you.”

  “Why?” A furrow formed between her exquisite brows.

  She should be happy with his decision, but Chase couldn’t see what emotions, or lack of them, might have sprung into shrewd blue eyes hidden by the aviator glasses favored by military personnel.

  “You were right. I could use an extra pair of hands to help get things squared away here.”

  “Begging your pardon, Dr. Russell-”

  Chase held up one hand. Should he tell her the truth? She certainly deserved it after everything she’d been through.

  That night at his brother’s hospital bedside, it'd been humbling to discover he wasn’t such a big shot after all. What if Matt was right, and this Marine was his one chance to right his grievous mistake?

  He released his breath on a harsh hiss and admitted, “If I work with you, it will help me, too.”

  Jane stared, clearly confused by his change of heart.

  “What do you say? Will you stay?”

  Removing her sunglasses, she hung them on the neck of her tank. Pulling gum from her jeans pocket, she didn't do a good job of hiding her belligerence. “I have nowhere else to be.”

  Chase had a hard time hiding his smile. “How long can you stay?”

  “I’ve got thirty days leave coming.”

  He considered how much they had to do. Thirty days wasn't much time, but accepting the constraint, he sought her gaze beneath the tinted glasses. “There will be ground rules.”

  For the briefest moment, he thought he saw relief flit across the face that had him thinking she was a woman used to taking care of herself. “Yes, Sir.”

  Forbidding his gaze to flick down her thin, athletic frame, he laid them out. “First, you’ve got to stop calling me Sir. Second, you’ll eat three meals a day.”

  “I eat enough.”

  He ignored her. “I’ll organize daily therapy sessions.”

  “Talking.” She sounded dubious. Chase opted to tell her later it would be more than that.

  “What do you do for exercise?”

  Her brows shot up.

  She was a Marine in his uncle’s command. Chase knew what that meant. He hadn’t forgotten the summers he and Nate had spent with Matt backpacking into the rugged Central Oregon countryside, rock climbing at nearby Smith Rock, and white water rafting on the Deschutes River.

  Matt had expected them to stay in top physical condition. He wouldn’t demand anything less from his Marines.

  Those adolescent memories were primarily what had drawn Chase to the area. When he’d come across the For Sale sign out on the road fronting the ranch on his last vacation, he’d bought the place thinking it would be a great vacation home. Little did he know it would become his sanctuary.

  “Okay, we’ll work out an exercise program later.” For the first time since taking up residence, Chase relaxed. Jane Donovan was not going to make the next month easy. The only surprise was, he kind of liked that about her. “You’ll need to learn some relaxation techniques.”

  “I’m relaxed.”

  “Uh huh. I can see that.” His comment brought out a sexy scowl that had his
gut stirring in appreciation. “There are enough chores to do around here to keep you from brooding.”

  Her scowl deepened. “I don’t brood.”

  “In between all that we’ll go over your coping mechanisms.”

  “I won’t take pills.”

  “All right, can you tell me why?”

  She blushed prettily, then squared her shoulders. “They take my will away. You should also know, alcohol doesn’t help.”

  “Glad to hear that.” There had been a note about excessive alcohol use in her file.

  “I hope you have some new tricks up your sleeve, because talking about how I’m feeling doesn’t help either.”

  The woman was as dangerous as dynamite. One more time he warned himself to keep his mind on the game, and not on how interesting she was fast becoming.

  Before he could forget he was a professional, he pointed over her shoulder. “Change into workout clothes and meet me out back at the punching bag.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jane had her gear stowed in the room where she’d slept the night through for the first time since the bombing. A heavy dose of ibuprofen and the heating pad Russell had left on the bed had given her the reprieve she’d all but given up finding.

  When she got down to the punching bag, she wasn't as relieved as she thought she would be to find her new counselor waiting.

  She could do this. She’d had too many therapists over the last six months not to know what Russell wanted to hear. Like he said, there wasn’t much time. All she had to do was give him the right answers. He would work his magic. She’d be on her way home.

  He handed her a pair of fat, padded boxing gloves. “Do you know how to box?”

  “I’ve had some practice.” In Madrid, besides Friday night poker, it had been one of their favorite pastimes.

  Russell pulled on matching gloves. He moved to the opposite side of the bag and threw a punch that landed with a hard thud. “So, you were raised in an orphanage? Did you know your family?”