A Soldier's Devotion

She bit her bottom lip until it turned white, then looked around like Refuge’s traumatized mayor after last year’s bridge collapse. “Um, I think not. It…It’s…pretty smashed.”

He tensed and wished she’d get her soft hand off his aching arm.

“How bad?” If this crazy lady broke the only tangible reminder remaining on earth of his late brother…he’d never forgive her. At her blank look, impatience mounted, twisting his shoulders into knots. “How. Bad. Is. It?” He enunciated the words like a phonics teacher with a mouthful of molten lava.

“Um…so-ome of the pieces broke off.” Her face blanched the more her eyes scanned their periphery and whatever carnage littered it. “Maybe even…well, all of the little ones.”

He didn’t doubt that since he’d felt tiny insignificant cosmetic pieces break off on impact. That wasn’t his main concern. “How’s the frame?”

“B-bent. Definitely, but not horribly. I—at least I don’t think so.” Her lips rolled inward as if her own words daunted her. Distress mounted in her eyes and tears finally trickled down her cheeks. She blinked furiously. “I—I’m not m-much of a motorcycle person.”

No kidding. For an instant, he almost felt sorrier for her than for himself.

Nah.

Her remorse probably only meant she feared he’d sue her.

Didn’t matter. She shouldn’t concern her pretty self with petty litigation. He’d be the last person to go near any sort of legal office. His family had a thing against lawyers. Far as Vince was concerned, they were the reason his brother…

Sirens whined closer, blared louder, derailing his train of thought, causing the throbbing in his head to expand.

Flashing emergency vehicle taillights reflected off the wet surface, giving eerie red hues to the watery seal-coat layer over asphalt smothered in oil and gasoline. Doors creaked open and slammed shut.

Several sets of black shoes hooded in blue scrub pants sloshed across the lot. Drizzle sprinkled Vince’s face as the woman divorced her hand from his shoulder and leaned back, allowing EMTs to access him.

Staying as still as possible, Vince issued himself a mental reprimand for instantly missing her fruity perfume, her lullaby voice, her presence and even her prayers.

Missing her. Just—her.

Anger welled in him that a complete stranger and her connection to the God he loathed brought comfort in this momentary nightmare. He needed to let team leader Joel Montgomery know why he was late. Tell him what was going on without compromising the mission or his teammates’ safety.

How to do this? What to say?

He wouldn’t be telling the truth—that he’d probably just fractured or dislocated something—that’s for sure. But trying to go injured could cause a new set of problems. No way would he be stupid enough to put his brothers in harm’s way. Even if it meant he had to lay down his angry pride and let this mission go on without him.

He looked at the woman—the very beautiful woman—who caused all this and felt like growling at her and howling at the moon all at the same time. Absurd. Musta hit his head harder than he thought. Err, his helmet rather.

Speaking of his helmet, Vince remembered how crazy-soft her hands felt as she’d helped him off with it.

“You still got that phone on you?” Vince asked her through clenched teeth.

“Yes. Who can I call for you?” Quaking hands fumbled in the pocket of her power suit. The one that hugged a figure any guy would be nuts not to notice. Even an injured one. He jerked away his gaze like the rip cord on a screaming parachute and ground his teeth. He wanted nothing whatsoever about her to be appealing.

He’d been headed to the drop-zone facility following an emergency page from Joel. But, on impact, his cell phone had bounced across the road and broken into particles.

Frustration surged. He became even more irked that he’d been placed in the position of having to use his assailant’s phone for help.

Vince refused to restrain the disapproval from his voice as he recited the number of Refuge’s DZ. The guys were probably convening there prior to being flown to their insertion point.

Without him.

Not only had this bad-driving woman risked his life, she’d rendered his team one man short.

Slender fingers punched the keypad. “It’s ringing.” She held the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Chance? Lemme talk to Joel.” Vince huffed a breath. Ribs sore. Hurt to talk.

She must have sensed it because she moved the phone from his ear to hers. “Who am I talking to?” she asked Vince in a take-charge voice that he would have appreciated any other time.

The last thing he wanted was to feel anything remotely positive toward the enemy—who was, at the moment, namely her. And the terrorists who’d shot down the pilot he couldn’t go help save.

His anger hit boiling point again. And he let her know it with a lethal look. Didn’t faze or rattle her. Must be one mortar-tough chick.

“Ask for Montgomery. Tell him I’m in a fender bender and won’t make the lift.”

“Mr. Montgomery?” she said into the phone. “Yes, I’m here with…Excuse me a moment.” She covered the mouthpiece and leaned in to Vince. “What’s your name?”

“Reardon.”

“I’m here with…Reardon. I—he’s been in a substantial accident. On his bike, yes.” She swallowed. Hard. Okay, maybe not so tough.

Vince scowled at her for giving TMI but she ignored him just like she’d disobeyed the traffic signal that caused this wreck.

“Yes, he’s alert and coherent, but I think it hurts him to talk. The ambulance is on its way. Yes. Thank you. And I’m very sorry. Well, because I’m the one who caused the wreck.” Her lips trembled at the words and no doubt Joel was offering soothing words to her. Traitor.

Connor Stallings, a Refuge police officer, finished taking statements from witnesses and approached. He dipped his head toward the phone. “Is that Montgomery?”

“Yes.”

“Let me talk with him.” Stallings took the cell she handed him then he stepped out of Vince’s earshot.

Another raging hole burned through Vince. He hated to be coddled and babied. Most of all pitied. And Stallings’ face had been full of it when he’d initially rushed over to Vince upon arriving on the accident scene.

After talking with Vince’s leader and saying who knows what that could further worry them needlessly, Stallings knelt beside him. Compassionate eyes rested on Vince, which ticked him off even more. Anger surged like his headache. Did everyone have to feel sorry for him?

Vince clenched his jaw at the unwanted attention. He didn’t want anyone to see him weak or broken. He vehemently ignored the rubberneckers in cars and concerned bystanders in the periphery and focused on Officer Stallings.

“I guess I don’t have to ask how you’re doing, Sergeant Reardon.”

Vince eyed one of the few men he’d met who matched his six-foot-six stature and who sometimes skydived at Refuge Drop Zone. “I’ve been better.” He slashed a sharp look at the woman.

Although he was scraped up and in mind-blasting pain, his sense of pride and dignity were wounded above all.

Stallings’ blue-silver gaze cooled as it rested on the woman. “Were you the other driver?”

“Y-yes. I was at fault.” Her lips trembled.

Vince looked away, not wanting to soften toward her.