Beginning with You

by Lindsay McKenna

  Rook saw a tired hint of a smile pull at Tag’s mouth. She reached over and patted his arm. Her plan to make him feel just a bit better had succeeded. “Maybe you’re right, Tag.”

  With a groan, he shook his head and went back to writing his report. “I know I am. Now, get out of here. Go powder that cute nose of yours or something.”

  She rose. “I don’t wear makeup, so I have nothing to powder it with, Mr. Welsh.”

  “A woman like you should wear a little bit, you know just to show everyone how pretty you really are.”

  Embarrassed by Tag’s honesty, Rook left as quietly as she had come. She had seen the worry in his drawn features. There would be an inquiry on this incident. Tag didn’t need this, on top of the rest of his problems. As she slowly walked back to her office, she tried to think of a way to make him feel a little better, despite the dark cloud that seemed to constantly hover over his head.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ward told Tag to come in and sit down. He had both his and Rook’s handwritten reports on his desk. The Ops officer, Commander Bob Nelson, grimly stood nearby. It was nearly five o’clock, and Ward was sure everyone was ready to call it a day. It had been a long, grueling one for the two pilots, and Tag looked worse than everyone else combined. Ward kept his voice soft and low when he spoke to him.

  “Bob and I would like to hear your side of the story concerning the reasons for only carrying five hundred pounds of fuel on board this morning.”

  Tag sat straight in his chair, the olive drab material of his flight suit darkened beneath each armpit with rings of sweat. “Lieutenant Caldwell figured out our HOGE power requirements and told me six hundred pounds, sir. I don’t know what made me correct that downward to five hundred.”

  Ward watched the officer closely. He was coming unraveled right in front of them. His hands shook every time he lifted them to make a gesture. It wasn’t Ward’s intent to upset Tag even more, but he had to try and find out what had led to the decision.

  “It looked like a rough SAR case from the word go,” Ward said, watching some relief come to Tag’s eyes.

  “Yes, sir, one of the worst I’ve been on in a long time.”

  “You say you decided not to go with six hundred pounds of fuel. Can you give me any reason for that, Tag?”

  Tag shook his head. “No, sir, I can’t. I screwed up.”

  Bob Nelson shot a pleading look at the skipper, then turned his attention to the pilot. “Look, Tag, you’ve had a damn good flight record. It’s not like you to make an error like this. There must have been something, maybe even some unconscious reasoning, that made you change those stats for your gross weight?”

  Tag looked at each man’s grave face. He stared down at his hands, which he had clasped in front of him. “I don’t know, Bob. I can’t think of anything right now. Rook questioned me on my decision, but I went ahead with it, anyway. It’s my error in judgment entirely. She had nothing to do with it. She was right and I was wrong.”

  Ward straightened up, leaning back in the chair. “More important, Tag, you did a creditable job, flying under some trying circumstances. You got the helo down in one piece and the victim to the hospital.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Tag, you may go. Send in Ms. Caldwell, will you?” Ward asked.

  Ward saw the slump to Tag’s shoulders as he left the office. It was as if all the life had been drained from the man. He switched his attention to Rook as she entered the room.

  “Come in and sit down, Ms. Caldwell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rook sat on the edge of the wing chair. She sweated—not for herself, but for Tag. She had expected to get called on the carpet, but not this soon. They had turned in their reports only two hours ago.

  “Tell me what happened out at the SAR desk this morning. What were your duties?” Ward asked her.

  “Mr. Welsh asked me to compute our HOGE power and max gross weight, sir.”

  “How many pounds of fuel did it compute with the variables?”

  “Six hundred, sir.” And then Rook added quickly, “But I think Mr. Welsh was correct in going to five hundred.”

  Bob gave Ward a quick look. “Why do you say that, Rook?”

  “Well, while we were out there, the temperature increased and the weather conditions fluctuated. My nose felt warmer. And with that unexpected temperature change, if we’d gone with the computed gross weight, I’m positive we’d have been unable to hover. Neither of us was expecting the victim to weigh two hundred and sixty pounds, either. When Davis started winching up the litter, I didn’t know whether the helo was going to maintain altitude or not. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Welsh’s fine flying and experience, I don’t think any of us would be alive right now to be talking about it.”

  Ward sat back, digesting her impassioned defense of Welsh. Was Rook doing it to protect him? Maybe herself? She wasn’t at fault; that was clear. Maybe she didn’t realize that. “Look, Ms. Caldwell, this isn’t a captain’s mast and it isn’t an investigation. We’re’ merely trying to piece this whole thing together. No one’s charged with anything. Do you understand?”

  Rook’s heart was pounding hard in her chest. “Yes, sir.” She squirmed in the chair. “Originally, I questioned Tag—er, I mean, Mr. Welsh, on his decision. But the weather was so gimpy and changing, plus the X-factor of not realizing the victim’s weight, that he was correct on his decision.”

  Ward nodded. “Anything else you want to add, Ms. Caldwell?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How was Mr. Welsh’s frame of mind this morning before the SAR case?” Bob asked her.

  Puzzled, Rook said, “Sir?”

  “Did he appear absentminded—maybe preoccupied in some way?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. Not in my estimation,” she answered slowly. What were they getting at?

  “That’s all, Ms. Caldwell,” Ward murmured. “It’s 1700, and I’m sure you’d like to call it a day.”

  Managing a slight smile, Rook stood up. “Yes, sir.”

  Ward turned to Bob after she had left. “Well? What’s your opinion?”

  Bob stood up, his hands resting loosely on his narrow hips. “Originally, I think Tag made an error. However, we both know that a temperature inversion can throw any statistic out the door in a second. Since the victim weighed so damn much, I’d say that Tag lucked out on his error. I think Caldwell’s right. If they’d gone in with six hundred pounds of fuel under those fluctuating conditions, they would not have been able to do the job.”

  “I concur. But Welsh shouldn’t be let off that easy. He did make an error that could have cost both lives and aircraft—not to mention a lawsuit, if the victim had died.”

  “Correct. So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Counsel him and note it on his fitness report. There’s no reason for anything else at this point. The man knows he was wrong and admitted it. I don’t believe in harassing my people if they own up to their errors.”

  “Sounds reasonable. I’ll counsel him first thing tomorrow morning.” Bob started to head for the door.

  “One more thing,” Ward called.

  The officer turned around. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take Welsh off duty tonight. Call in another pilot to take over. He’s in no shape to take another SAR call if we get one. Tomorrow morning, after you’ve talked with him, I want him here in my office.”

  Bob nodded. “You going to ground him?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s obvious his wife’s illness is affecting his ability to make good decisions.” Ward stood and expended a long breath of air. “If he doesn’t have the good sense to come and talk to you, and ask for time off because of his present mental state, I may have to do something about it.”

  Relieved that Ward understood, Bob nodded. “I tried to tell the old CO about this, sir, but he wouldn’t listen. We were short of pilots anyway, and he didn’t want Welsh pulled.”

  “Any time one of my pilots becomes a danger to himself
, I’ll ground him or her.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see that Mr. Welsh is here by 1000 to see you.”

  Ward restlessly paced his office, the SAR case report in his hand. He halted at the window that overlooked the parking lot and watched Rook Caldwell, in her blue uniform, climb into a black Ford truck. He tapped the copy of the report absently against his leg as she drove away. He knew that Howard Barton was the father of Jim Barton, the man who had come on base to give her flowers. Was she going to visit the hospital and find out how her first rescue victim was doing? Smiling slightly, he turned, deciding to call it a day. It had been a hellish one.

  “Jim?”

  Jim was sitting in the waiting room of the Intensive Care Unit, lost in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, when he heard Rook’s husky voice. Wearily, he raised his head. She was wearing her blue uniform. His first thought was that she looked good in it. The second, more important emotion caught him totally off guard when she crouched down in front of him.

  “Rook?” There was disbelief in his thick voice. When he saw her smile, some of the awful pain he was feeling went away.

  “You look like hell.”

  He looked down at his filthy clothes. The mud had dried on him hours ago. “Yeah…I guess I do.”

  “Your father?”

  Warmth flowed through him, chasing away the coldness that had inhabited him since his father’s accident. “He’s next door in ICU.”

  “How’s he doing?” she asked quietly. Rook tried to hide her shock over Jim’s condition. A day’s worth of beard had darkened his face, making him look gaunt. His eyes were red rimmed; he’d been crying. That shook Rook deeply, as it had when she had seen his face wet with tears at the rescue site. Rook had never seen a man cry before. Jim smelled of mud and sweat, and there were dried streaks of blood all over his shirt.

  “He’s critical, but stable, thank God.”

  “I called over and found out he got out of surgery about three this afternoon.”

  Jim was resting his elbows on his thighs, hands dangling limply between his legs. Rook’s unexpected nearness and concern nearly unstrung his carefully closeted fears and grief. “Yeah. They couldn’t stop the bleeding for a while. They said there were a lot of serious internal injuries.” He gave a slight shrug. “You know how doctors are. They talk in a language nobody can understand.”

  “I know. So, your father’s resting comfortably now?”

  Jim nodded, feeling a hundred years old. He could smell his own stench—the fear-sweat that had stained his clothes. “They let me go in once an hour for five minutes to see him. He’s still coming out from under the anesthesia, I guess.”

  “It will probably be a while.” Rook transferred her hand from the arm of the chair to Jim’s shoulder. “Listen, you’ve done all you can here for him. Can I give you a lift home? Maybe a shower, a change of clothes and some food will help you.”

  He stared at her, the silence building between them. “I guess you’re right. I smell like hell.” Jim straightened up and looked down at his clothes.

  Rook stood up, noticing at least two minor injuries to his right hand and arm. “Come on, fella, you need some doctoring yourself. I’ll drive. You give me directions to your house.”

  He was too emotionally and physically exhausted to argue with her. Instead, Jim was grateful for the strength that she was giving him. “Sounds good. Let me tell the nurses at ICU where I’ll be.”

  She nodded.

  Rook had wisely gotten directions to Jim’s home before they left the hospital, since when she glanced over five minutes into the drive, she found him fast asleep. His hair was mussed, strands dipping down across his drawn brow. There was something vulnerable about him in sleep that allowed her to let down her guard toward him.

  Jim gave her the keys as they walked up to the huge cedar home that sat far on the slopes of the Olympic Mountains. She led him inside and straight to the bathroom.

  “Start stripping off those clothes.” Rook leaned over and got the shower started for him. She saw that his movements were slow and that his hands shook as he tried to unbutton his shirt. “Here,” she whispered. “Let me do that. How long has it been since you last ate?”

  Jim felt light-headed. “Five this morning…I think.”

  “I thought so.” Rook pulled the soiled shirt off him, wrinkling her nose when she dropped it on the tile floor behind her. She tried to ignore his powerful-looking well-defined upper chest, dark with hair. Tugging at the belt to his jeans, she muttered, “You do the rest. When you get done in here, come on out. I’ll rummage around your kitchen and fix you something to eat. Then you’re going to bed.”

  Jim’s reflexes were slow, but not too slow to catch her fingers before they left the belt he was wearing. “Look,” he said, his words slurring, “I’ve got to get cleaned up and go back over there. I want to be there when Dad wakes up.”

  Rook’s hand tingled hotly, aware of the callused warmth of his hand as it encircled hers. “All right,” she said softly, not wanting to upset him further. “We’ll do it your way.”

  While Jim showered, Rook called the hospital. Yes, the head nurse would call if Howard Barton was regaining consciousness. Just as Rook suspected, the nurse felt the senior Barton would come out of the anesthesia and go directly to sleep without waking. But in the event he woke up they would call.

  Rook tried to still her reaction to the opulence and beauty of Jim’s house. It had every conceivable modern convenience, she discovered. Jody Theron was right; the Barton’s weren’t poor. She whipped up a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon while Jim showered. When she realized that over half an hour had elapsed and he still hadn’t appeared, Rook investigated.

  She found the bathroom door open and followed the puddle of wet footprints down the highly polished cedar hall. Rook halted at the open door to the expansive master bedroom and smiled. Jim had opened the closet, climbed into a pair of clean gray trousers and sat down on the bed to put his socks on. But somewhere between getting the first sock on and the second one, he had lain back and fallen asleep.

  She moved quietly to the bed. His snore was heavy and profound. As gently as possible, Rook maneuvered him onto the bed. Jim barely stirred from sleep, rolling over on his side and drawing his legs up toward his body. Taking a blanket from the closet, Rook covered him and then tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Jim woke. First, he lay there a good five minutes, reorienting himself. When his fogged brain remembered that Rook Caldwell had brought him home, he sat up. Rubbing his stubbled face wearily, he picked up the phone and called the hospital. Afterward, he shrugged on a clean shirt and padded through the quiet, darkened house.

  He found Rook asleep on one of the den couches. Shaking his head, Jim walked down the carpeted steps. This was his favorite room, with the fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city and straits. Everything looked so peaceful from here. And despite the traumatic day, he felt more solid emotionally than before.

  Kneeling down next to the couch, Jim quietly watched Rook. She lay with her hands beneath her cheek, turned on her side, legs drawn up. Her shoes had been placed to one side, and her slender feet were now encased only in nylon. He reached out, barely grazing her cheek, realizing for the first time that she must be as exhausted as he was. Her skin was pliant beneath his thumb as he lightly outlined her clean bone structure. New, unexpected protective feelings moved through him. Rook stirred and he rested his hand on her slender shoulder. Jim watched as her thick black lashes fluttered open to reveal drowsy gray eyes.

  “Just lie there,” he told her quietly. “It’s ten o’clock.”

  Rook’s eyes widened, and she looked up at Jim. His face was shadowed in the darkness. Groggy, she muttered, “Your dad? Did they call?” And she groped for the phone, which she had placed next to her on the couch.

  Jim caught her hand and held it gently. “Everything’s all right, Rook. They said h
e’s resting well.” He looked deeply into her vulnerable gray eyes. The husky quality of her voice moved him.

  “You aren’t like any woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “First, you rescue Dad, and then you come and take care of me. You don’t look much better than I feel. The day had to be hell on you, too, in a different way.”

  Unguarded when just awakened, Rook’s normal defenses weren’t in place. She responded to his low, unsteady voice. Despite all that had happened to him, Jim was still aware that the SAR case had affected her, too. But she had been too busy earlier to realize that she’d been in shock herself. “I’m okay….”

  Jim gave her a slight smile that said he didn’t believe her. “Sure, and so am I. You don’t lie very well, lady….”

  Rook slowly sat up with his help, wildly aware of him as a man. His father’s accident had stripped Jim, leaving him open and accessible to her. Unable to think coherently, Rook reacted out of instinct when she saw his eyes fill up with tears. Wordlessly, she slipped her arms around him, drawing him to her. Jim gripped her hard, squeezing the breath from her as he crushed her against him.

  Rook ran her fingers through his short, dark hair, feeling the unbearable tension in his body. “He’s going to be all right, Jim. I just know it….” she crooned near his ear. And then she felt a shudder move through him, and she tightened her hold around him. Rocking him gently, as if he were a hurt child, Rook felt more than heard the sob that escaped him.

  She buried her head next to Jim’s, tears squeezing from beneath her tightly shut eyes. She wasn’t sure any longer who was comforting whom. It didn’t matter, she discovered. For the first time in her life, she had trusted a man with her emotions. Although stunned by that realization, Rook didn’t care. What was important was getting Jim through the trauma reaction. She didn’t need to ask if he loved his father; she could tell by his wrenching sobs, which seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

  Later, after his weeping ceased, Rook managed an unsteady smile and tried to dry his stubbled cheeks with her fingers. “Look at us,” she whispered, a catch in her voice. “We’re a couple of crybabies.”