Hero of My Heart (The McRae Series, Book 5 - Will)

by Teresa Hill

He untied her shirt and lifted the right side to see her ribcage. It looked like she'd taken a boot to her ribs. He'd had those, and he tried hard not to think of a man doing that to her.

  He didn't feel any jagged edges of bone that could puncture a lung. That was good. He slid his hands over her shoulders, arms, pelvic bones, legs, ankles, feet. Nothing seemed to be broken. Her clothes had dirt and a little blood here and there, but nothing overly alarming.

  He rolled up one sleeve of her shirt and pinched the skin of her forearm. The skin was slow to come back to its normal position, which told him she was dehydrated. Not surprising in this climate and given what she'd been through. Dehydration could be part of the reason she was disoriented.

  He had a bag of saline and decided to go ahead and get fluids running into her, because that almost always helped. She didn't flinch when he slid the IV needle into her arm. He wasn't the worst stick in the world, but he wasn't the best, either. He'd thought she might object to that, as she had to the light in her eyes.

  He re-checked her breathing, pulse, pupils, finding them much the same.

  Okay.

  Maybe she was more exhausted than anything else. The hyper-vigilant state of someone held hostage by gunmen in a third-world country had to be exhausting. He'd let her sleep, keep checking her vitals and see if the fluids helped rouse her.

  Next, he tried his phone again, getting a weak connection to his buddy manning the desk at his SEAL team's headquarters.

  "Mace, it's Will. We're out. Me and the girl, all in one piece."

  "Good, because it looks like things are getting ugly on the ground in the capitol. The protest against what happened at the school turned into a mob scene. Where are you?"

  "Holed up in an abandoned house, well outside the capitol. Did you find us a ride?"

  "I'll make the call. Not sure how long it'll take. Are you safe where you are? Good to wait?"

  "We're good." They had food, water, shelter. No problem.

  "How's the girl?"

  "No urgent medical needs," Will said. "Anybody really pissed at me back there?"

  "No, I think you're good. Her old man must really have some pull at State. Are you going to call him or do you want me to?"

  "I will, but after this, I'll leave it to you to update him. I don't want to make any more calls than I have to." Just in case. If the country was descending into civil war, all the Americans needed to lay low while they waited to be evaced.

  "All right. We'll contact you when we have an update on your ride."

  Will called Sam and Rachel's house next, feeling lucky to have a connection, however faint and static-filled. Sam answered in the middle of the first ring.

  "It's Will. I have her. We're safe."

  He heard a commotion through the line, then Sam saying, "I think her father needs to hear that from you."

  Amanda's father got on the phone. "She's okay?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Where are you?"

  "Somewhere safe, out of the city, waiting for transportation out of the country."

  "I'll get it for you," the man said.

  "Yes, Sir. I appreciate that, but don't be surprised if they won't put a bird in the air until dark, just to be safe. We've made it this far. I don't want to get shot down while getting out of here." Flying at night with night-vision technology made it so much harder for the enemy to spot them.

  "Of course. She's really okay?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "I need to speak to her."

  Will had known that was coming. "Sir, she's resting."

  In an instant, Will could feel the man's anxiety level rising despite the distance between them.

  "Unconscious?" the ambassador guessed.

  "Yes, Sir, I believe she has a mild concussion and a few bruised or cracked ribs. Nothing serious. We had a brief conversation when I got her out of the school, and she was awake and alert enough to give me hell for getting her to safety without the children who were also being held hostage."

  "That's my girl," the man said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Find out if all the kids got out safely," Will said. "She'll want to know."

  He hoped like hell they did. Not just for the sake of them and their parents and everyone else who loved them, but for himself, too. If they all got out safely, Amanda Warren might forgive him for leaving them behind.

  * * *

  Baxter, Ohio

  As the waitress refilled their coffee, Amanda thought of how much she'd put her father through, how scared he must have been.

  "There's not much else to tell," Will said. "Not long after dark, a helicopter took us out of there. I don't know how your father arranged it. Getting a mission like that authorized so quickly into a country that's not exactly friendly to the U.S. is not easy."

  "That's it? A helicopter came, and we were out of there?"

  He nodded.

  "We didn't have any problems getting out of the country?"

  "No. The chopper was in and out without incident. It was maybe..."

  He broke off as someone walking past the diner caught his eye through the big front windows. His whole body tensed, and for a moment, Amanda thought he actually looked afraid.

  What in the world could scare Will?

  Amanda looked in the same direction he was. She saw a woman, rail-thin, older, messy, rough-looking. He kept staring, and then he was sliding out of the booth and onto his feet.

  "Give me a minute," he said. "I'll be right back."

  Amanda watched him go. He followed the woman down the sidewalk, staying a few paces behind her until they got so far away she lost sight of them.

  Curious, even a little worried—she'd never seen Will rattled—she pulled a five-dollar bill out of her purse and left it on the table, then went to find him.

  He was a full block away, standing against the brick wall of the hardware store. The woman had taken a seat on the sidewalk across the street and half a block further down. She had a one-foot-square piece of cardboard—like she'd cut it from a box—in her hand and had put a cup in front of her.

  She was begging for money.

  Amanda put her hand on Will's arm, and he tensed even more. "Do you know her?"

  He nodded.

  "Do you want to go talk to her?"

  "No." He pulled out his wallet, brought out a hundred-dollar bill, then went still again. "Shit, if I give her that, she could buy enough to overdose." He put the hundred back and pulled out a twenty, which he handed to Amanda. "Give her that, okay?"

  Amanda took the bill. "Okay."

  "I'm going to head back to your car. I'll meet you there."

  "You don't want to see her? Talk to her?"

  "No."

  "But—"

  "It wouldn't do any good, Amanda," he said, then turned around and walked back the other way.

  Amanda let him go, and once he got down the block and across the street, she turned and approached the woman. Up close, Amanda could see so many lines on her face, and skin turned brown and leathery-hard by the sun. Her clothes weren't clean, and neither was her hair. She was rocking back and forth slightly, and she looked up and smiled as Amanda approached her.

  She mouthed "Thank you," as Amanda slipped the bill into her cup. When she saw the denomination, she said, "That's twenty dollars. You know that?"

  Amanda nodded.

  "Do I know you?" the woman asked.

  "No," Amanda said. "Get something to eat, okay?"

  "I will," the woman said. "Thanks, again."

  Amanda turned around and walked back to her car. Will was beside it, pacing until he saw her walking toward him. Then he stopped and leaned against the car, his arms crossed in front of him. If she had to guess, he was trying very hard not to look uptight. His jaw was tight, his mouth was stretched into a straight line, and his expression was carefully blank.

  "I gave her the money."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm guessing you don't want to talk about this?"

&
nbsp; "She's just somebody I used to know." He held out his hand to Amanda and asked, "Car keys?"

  She pulled them out of her purse and handed them to him, thinking they were going somewhere, and he wanted to drive. But he clicked the key fob to unlock the car, opened the door on the driver's side and held it for her.

  Amanda stepped between him and the car. "Will, you're upset—"

  "I'll be fine."

  "I'm sure you will. I just... Let me help you for a change."

  "Amanda, there's nothing to do. Just get in the car."

  "So, it's fine for you to do everything you can for me, but no one gets to help you with anything?"

  "I don't need anything—"

  "You can hardly stand still and speak. Your jaw is so tight—"

  "Do I like seeing what I just saw? No. Does it surprise me? Not in the least. Is there anything I can do to change it? No. Learned that the hard way. Years ago. So, there's nothing to talk about."

  And then he just stood there, holding the door open.

  "The friendship thing? It goes both ways," she said. "We're not friends just so you can take care of me. I could help you, too."

  He nodded, but still said nothing. She gave up and got inside. Once she was seated, he pulled out the seatbelt and handed it to her. She buckled it, and he handed her the keys.

  "I'm sorry, Will. For whoever she is and whatever she means to you."

  "Thank you," he said, then gently closed the car door.

  Amanda did what he wanted. She drove away, leaving him standing there. She didn't know what to make of the whole thing.

  Ridiculous as it was, she'd thought he was invincible. Maybe he was right, and she did see him as some larger-than-life caricature of a man instead of who he was, a real person, faults and weaknesses and all.

  Had she treated him like that?

  She hoped she hadn't.

  And she wished she were someone he could confide in about things that upset him, like that woman. But he had very firmly clammed up and pushed her away.

  Did he let anyone in?

  Sam? Rachel? Emma?

  There had to be someone.

  And yet, Emma had said even she didn't know much about Will's past, and they'd known each other since they were children. Will was considered part of the family. So how could Emma not know about Will's childhood?

  Could he be that private about his life? That alone?

  Amanda hated that idea.

  And that woman? His reaction was so strong.

  The woman's age wasn't easy to figure out. Drugs aged a person prematurely. Amanda wasn't even sure how old Will was. Mid-thirties, she'd guess.

  But the most logical thing, judging by the strength of his reaction to her, was that the woman was his mother. Amanda hated even thinking that. And that he'd done so much for Amanda, but wouldn't let her even talk to him about this.

  Chapter 13

  "Is it possible that Will's mother is a drug addict, living on the streets here and begging for money?" Amanda asked Emma at her next session.

  Emma looked taken aback. "I guess so. I mean, I guess anything is possible with her. Why?"

  Amanda told her what had happened with the woman.

  "Wow. I'm guessing he didn't want to talk about that."

  "No, other than to say he wasn't surprised to see her living that way, and that he knew there was nothing he could do to change things for her."

  "When you're dealing with an addict, if that's what she is, he's right."

  Which made Amanda so sad for Will. "I want to help him. What can I do?"

  "Amanda, I don't know what he'll let you do. That's the question."

  "I know. You're right." And she was afraid she knew the answer. Nothing. He wouldn't let her do anything for him.

  "So, can we talk about you now? How are you?"

  "Better, I guess. Well, probably more... not as bad. I did enjoy meeting your sister the other night. My father convinced me to leave the house long enough to have lunch with him in a restaurant, and we ran into Grace with your father."

  "We're all glad to have her back. I hope she and her husband are here to stay. What else have you done?"

  "I'm not spending as much time in the corner of my bedroom. Not having as many nightmares or panic attacks. I'm doing my yoga, a little tai chi. I cooked a meal for my father the other night. Still not eating much, but I cooked. It sounded like a good way to spend time. The recipe was complicated and slow. I had to think, but I wasn't... you know, thinking about anything important. A quarter teaspoon of this, half a cup of that. Whisk, fold in ingredients, stir. A lot of slow stirring."

  "Good."

  "Then I wanted to cook something really good and take it to Will."

  "Did you?"

  "No. I was still trying to figure out how to talk to him about that woman on the streets."

  "Okay, back to you."

  "I'm tired. I'm frustrated. I'm sick of being scared all the time, sick of everything I feel and how hard it is to do anything, like get out of bed in the morning, get dressed, eat, breathe. I'm just pathetic today," Amanda confessed. "Tell me again that it's going to get better."

  "It's better already, and it's going to keep getting better. I promise."

  * * *

  Buhkai, Africa,

  January 16th

  Amanda was back under water, drifting along.

  Except the water was sleep or something like it, and she didn't want to leave it. Because there, she didn't think anyone was trying to hurt her.

  Awake, she was scared. Something bad was there, so she lay perfectly still, listening, waiting.

  Out of nowhere, she felt hands on her, behind her neck, tilting her head to the side, and something slipped onto her bottom lip.

  She jerked away as hard as she could, then cried out because it hurt. Her side hurt. Her eyes were open, she thought, but it seemed to take a while to focus, and when she did, she saw a man about three feet away from her, sitting back on his heels, his hands held up, palms flat, as if to show her that he wasn't going to hurt her.

  She didn't believe him.

  Her heart raced. Her head pounded. Her whole body felt like it had been beaten up, and every time she tried to suck in air, it hurt.

  "It's okay," the man said. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you've got bruised ribs, maybe cracked ones, so every time you make a sudden movement, it's going to hurt. Try shallow little breaths. That should help."

  She looked around. Where were they?

  The Middle East, she guessed, from the thickness and the look of the walls of the room, and the dirt floor, and the window that was just a hole in the wall. It was hot. Daytime, because there was sunlight.

  The man looked like...

  God, he looked fierce and strong and... not quite scary, but like he could be if he wanted to.

  "Amanda," he said.

  Maybe he'd been saying it for a while. She sensed she was missing a lot. It seemed to take a long time to process the simplest thoughts, like too much was going on for her to take in.

  She was in the corner of the room, her back pressed against the two walls, and that felt reassuring, having those walls behind her. She didn't need to worry about someone coming at her from behind.

  Was anyone else here?

  She didn't know.

  She ran her hands over her body, and everything seemed to be there. She was dirty and dusty, and there was... Something was sticking out of her arm. Or into it.

  She tried to figure out—

  "No." The man was there so fast, pulling her hands away. When she cried out and tried to back further into the corner, he backed up again. "It's just an IV," he said. "Fluids. You're dehydrated, Amanda."

  He knew her name?

  Who was he?

  "Here." He held out a pouch with a tube sticking out of it. "It's water. Just like what's in this cup. Have some. I bet your mouth feels like it's full of sand."

  It did, she realized.

  How did he know?

>   She wanted to refuse the water, but the thought of it seemed so good. She wasn't sure she could even speak, her mouth felt so dry. So she took the pouch and drank.

  It felt amazing in her mouth and then sliding down her throat.

  "Good," he said. "How do you feel?"

  Feel?

  What did he mean? It seemed like much too complicated a question. She had to think to feel things, had to think about one thing at a time.

  "What hurts?" he asked next. "Other than your ribs?"

  Okay. She could think about that. What hurt?

  "Everything," she whispered.

  "No one thing anymore than another? Except for the ribs?"

  She nodded. That hurt, too. Her head.

  "Hey, try this," he said, reaching for a little rectangular pouch on the floor beside him, pulling something out and extending it to her. "This always feels good in this kind of climate."

  It looked like a tissue. No, a small cloth. He draped it over her hand, and he was right. It felt so good. Cool and soft and a little bit wet.

  "Baby wipe," he said. "Best things in the world."

  Nothing had ever felt so good, and she wished she had one big enough to cover her whole hot, sweaty, grimy, aching body.

  She thought about where she wanted it most and decided on her face, but when she tried to make that happen, her arm felt so heavy, her eyelids, her mind. Everything seemed to take so much energy, and she didn't have any more.

  So many things she needed to figure out, to remember, and her head hurt so much.

  "Okay," the man said. "It's okay."

  She thought he was touching her, and she didn't want him to, but couldn't make a move to stop him. Then she was lying flat again, and that scared her, too, until she felt that incredibly soft, wet cloth on her face, her cheek.

  Oh, that was so good.

  She managed to open her eyes, and there he was, that man who could look so fierce, trying to smile down at her while he gently wiped her face.

  "It's okay," he said.

  No, it wasn't.

  She didn't know why, but it wasn't.

  "What happened?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "You don't remember?"

  "No." She didn't. "It's under the water, I think. I want to go back, but I'm scared. Is it here? On the surface? Or there? I don't know."