all right,” Craig snarled, not even trying to mask the cold fury in his voice. “Why don’t you see to my other two men? They’re wounded, too.”
Giving him a scathing look, Susan dropped the bloody pieces of fabric to the floor, then quickly cut away Craig’s shirt to expose his left arm, so that she could start an IV. “Because they’re injured far less seriously than you! Now be still,” she said sternly. “We’re in a triage situation, and the worst get helped first.”
Each trembling touch of Susan’s hand against his arm sent a wave of unadulterated pain straight to Craig’s heart. He shut his eyes and turned his head away. He couldn’t bear to look at her, because if he did, he knew he’d sweep her into his arms and hold her. Just hold her. Tears stung the back of his tightly shut eyelids, and he was only vaguely aware of the IV needle sliding into his arm. But he was wildly aware of Susan’s soft, soothing touch.
When her hand closed over his to get him to loosen the tourniquet, Craig’s eyes flew open. Their gazes met and clashed. Her hand hovered over his and they stared at each other, the silence drawn tautly between them. His skin seemed on fire where she had barely touched him.
“Let me have the tourniquet,” she said in a low, unsteady voice.
Drowning in the blue of her confused gaze, Craig swallowed hard, his fingers releasing, one at a time, from the web belt around his thigh. At one time he [chwould’ve trusted Susan with his life. God knew, he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. But that was impossible. She was married. She belonged to another man. Bitterly, he relaxed against the gurney, his head tipped back, gulping several breaths of air and wrestling with his raw anger toward her, on top of his concern for his men.
Susan tried to ignore Craig’s powerful hand. His fingers were bloody, many scars crossing their expanse. He’d always had wonderful hands, she thought, as she examined the gash in his thigh more closely. When the blood didn’t gush, she released the web belt completely. Inside, she was shaking like gelatin, wanting to cry—wanting to be just as furious with him as he obviously was with her. But why? Why? He’d been her best friend at Annapolis. He was the one who had dropped out of her life without so much as a goodbye.
Craig’s accusing gray eyes followed her every moment. “Your injury is going to require surgery,” she heard herself say tightly. “First, we’ll have to prep you for the general and—”
Craig’s hand shot out, gripping her by the wrist as she started to leave to get the necessary medical items. “No,” he growled, “no general. Give me a local. I want to stay awake. I want to know how my men are.”
His fingers branded her wrist like a burning iron. Stunned by his action, Susan stared down at his suffering features. He was obviously in intense pain, but the fury in his eyes overshadowed it—and that fury was aimed straight at her. Confused and dazed, she started to pull free of his grip.
“Let go!” she whispered coldly.
Craig glared up at her, trying to combat the huskiness of her voice as it flowed over him, calming his chaotic emotions, soothing his panic and anguish over his wounded men. Instantly, he released her wrist. “A local,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Let me get a doctor,” she blurted and almost ran toward the central portion of ER. Everyone was busy. Karen was working quickly over one marine and Dr. Finlay another. It was chaos as she had never experienced it before. No one could have envisioned a helicopter carrying ten marines crashing on base. She went to Finlay, because he was in charge of the section. Quickly, she explained the situation and Craig’s request.
Finlay didn’t even glance up as the surgery nurse handed him another clamp. “These are recons,” he told her. “They’re tighter than fleas on a dog. They don’t have the normal enlisted man/officer relationship. They’re like family to one another. Well, you’ll find out soon enough. Fine. If the officer doesn’t want to be knocked out, I don’t care. But you’d better tell the poor bastard how much pain he’s going to go through when you scrub the hell out of that wound for him. Get Dr. David to stitch him up when you’re done.” He glanced over at the surgery table where she was operating. “She’s almost finished there. I’ll tell her to get to your recon as soon as possible, Evans.”
“Yes, sir.”
Craig twisted his head as Susan came back into view. He tried to swallow his welling anger toward her enough to find out about his team. “Well? How are my men? Did you see them?”
Stung by his cold tone, Susan stopped herself from laying her hand briefly on his shoulder. “They’re in surgery right now,” she told him in a low, tight voice. Trying to put her personal feelings for Craig aside, she said, “I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything about their condition. I promise.”
Craig lay there absorbing Susan. Her voice had always been like good Tennessee sipping whiskey, low and husky. Now that warm, almost-golden voice flowed over him like a soothing blanket. He wanted to unleash four years of terrible anger and hurt toward her. He wanted to cry for his injured men. The powerful mix of warring emotions made his voice tight and raspy. “Give me a local and clean that wound out.”
Susan wondered where Craig had accumulated medical knowledge about this kind of procedure but said nothing. Under the watchful eye of his two teammates, Susan forced herself to remain professional even though she was terribly hurt by the way Craig was treating her. He’d never been like this back at Annapolis. In fact, she’d never seen him angry. What had happened to change him so much? And why aim his anger at her? The other two men had gotten off their gurneys and remained at the foot of Craig’s, watching her silently. The anxiety in their gazes touched Susan as nothing else could. She gave Craig the local anesthetic and began to clean around the long, gaping wound.
“The last I saw you,” she said, trying to break the palpable tension between them as she moved the gauze laden with antiseptic across his hard, taut thigh, “you were about to join the recon marines.” Susan risked a look at Craig. “I don’t know much about recons,” she confessed. She had to talk to allay her nervousness in Craig’s powerful, chilling presence. She could see the anger and anguish in his pale gray eyes, the tight set of his mouth against the pain.
“Recons go behind enemy lines,” he said tightly, relieved to have his mind on anything other than Susan’s firm, professional touch. How many torrid dreams had he had of her touching him? Craig groaned to himself and realized he was in shock from the crash, from worrying about his team members—and from suddenly seeing Susan again. He remembered sharply his vision of her moments before the helicopter arrived.
“I thought I was going to die,” he said, placing his arm across his eyes. Susan was too beautiful, too appealing for his wildly unstable emotional state right now, and Craig didn’t dare keep looking at her. Maybe if he didn’t see her he could get through this excruciating ordeal without lashing into her.
“Oh?” She threw the gauze into a wastebasket. She gently tested the flesh around the wound. Craig winced, his mouth tightening, but he didn’t groan. It would take another ten minutes before the local took effect enough so that she could begin the cleansing procedure on the wound itself.
“Yeah.” Craig grunted, his arm still across his shut eyes, “I was waiting for that helo to come and extricate me and my team, when all of a sudden, your face appeared before me.” He gave another laugh. “You! I about came unglued. I thought it was a sign I was going to die. And then, ten minutes after the helo picked up a second recon team, the blades started disintegrating around us. I saw my whole damn life pass in front of my eyes.”
“You
