“He’s gone. He died five years ago.” The pain in her chest grew. They may never have seen eye to eye about a lot of things, but she’d loved the man. And in spite of his shortcomings, he’d been a tower of strength after Larry had died and she’d been left alone, pregnant and grieving.
“I’m sorry.” Clint reached across the desk to cover her hand with his. “Your mom?”
“She’s okay. Worried about Chelsea. Just like I am.”
He pulled back and nodded. “Let’s discuss your daughter, then.”
“The nurse said you’ve already seen her, and you’ve read her chart, so you know what she tried to do.”
“Let’s talk about that, and then we’ll see her together.” He pulled a yellow legal pad from a drawer of his desk and laid it in front of him. He was neat, she’d give him that, and it surprised her. Around ten pencils, all sharpened to fine points, were lined up side by side, and a single good-quality pen was at the end of the row. Nothing else adorned the stark surface of his desk, other than his nameplate and his computer monitor. So very different from the scruffy clothes and longish hair she remembered from their school days. And she’d bet those motorcycle boots were long gone, probably replaced by some kind of shiny dress shoes.
Maybe that had all been an act. Because the man she saw in front of her was every bit as disciplined as her father had been.
She shook herself, needing to gather her wits.
The only thing she should be thinking about was the here and now … and how the Clint of today could or couldn’t help her daughter.
What had happened between them was in the past. It was over. And, as Clint had said, what they should be concentrating on was Chelsea.
So that’s what Jessi was going to do.
If, for some reason, she judged that he couldn’t help in her daughter’s recovery, then she would call, write letters, parade in front of the hospital with picket signs, if necessary. And she would keep on doing it, until someone found her a doctor who could.
CLINT FORCED HIMSELF to stare over her shoulder rather than at the mouthwatering jiggle of her ass. The woman was no longer the stick-thin figure he’d known once upon a time. Instead, she boasted soft curves that flowed down her body like gentle ocean swells and made his hands itch to mold and explore.
Forget it, jerk. You’re here for one thing only. To help Jessi’s daughter and others like her.
No one had been more shocked than he’d been to realize the beautiful woman sitting across from him, worry misting her deep green eyes, was none other than the girl he’d lusted after in school.
The one he’d kissed in a rare moment of weakness, her tears triggering every protective instinct in his body.
The woman he’d handed off to the boy she’d really wanted—the one she’d married.
Unfortunately for Clint, he still didn’t seem to be immune to her even after all these years.
He’d wanted to protect her.
Only he hadn’t been able to back then. He couldn’t now.
The only thing he could do was his job.
They reached Chelsea’s room, and he shoved aside a new ache in his gut. The one that had struck when he’d realized the young woman’s age was close enough to a certain deadly encounter to make him wonder whose she was.
Three months earlier and this story could have had a different ending.
No. It couldn’t.
He’d done what he’d had to do back then—left—and he had no regrets.
Jessi glanced back and caught his look, her brows arching in question.
Okay, maybe he had one regret.
But it was too late to do anything about that now.
His fingers tightened on Chelsea’s chart, and he started to push through the door, but Jessi stopped him. “I’ve been hearing things about the VA hospitals, Clint. You need to know up front that if I feel like she’s not getting the treatment she needs here, I’ll put her somewhere else.”
His insides turned into a hard ball. He cared about his patients. All of them. No matter what the bean counters in Washington recommended or the hospital administration at whatever unit he was currently assigned to said or did, he treated his patients as if they were his comrades in arms … which they were. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard. As long as I’m here, she’ll get the best I have.”
“But what if the hospital rules tell you to—?”
One side of his mouth went up. “Jessi May, always worried about something. Since when have you known me to play by anyone’s rules?” A question they both knew the answer to, since he’d challenged almost every regulation their high school had been able to come up with.
“Would you please stop calling me that?”
His smile widened. “Is it a rule?”
“No.” Her whole demeanor softened, and she actually laughed. “Because it’ll just make you worse.”
“I rest my case.”
A nurse walked down the hallway, throwing them a curious look and reminding him of the serious issues Jessi was facing.
He took a step back. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
Clint entered the room first, holding the door open for her.
Sitting in a chair by the window, his patient stared out across the lawn, not even acknowledging their presence. Hell, how could he not have seen the resemblance between the two women?
Chelsea had the same blond hair, the same pale, haunted features that her mother had once had. Only there was no way the young woman before him today could have survived basic training while maintaining that raw edge of vulnerability, so it was new. A result of her PTSD.
It affected people differently. Some became wounded and tortured, lashing out at themselves.
And some became impulsive and angry. Hitting out at others.
Clint wasn’t sure which was worse, although as a teenager with a newly broken pinkie finger, he could have told you right off which he preferred.
Only he’d never told anyone about his finger. Or about his father.
And when he’d found Jessi crying outside the school building because of something her own father had done … he’d thought the worst. Only to have relief sweep through his system when it had been something completely different.
He drew
