“Then you and O’Connell can tangle it up again.”
Thoughts of her dressing him slid right through that Demerol haze. “What do you mean?”
“Your set-to on the flight line last night is all the talk around the briefing room.”
“Great.”
Cutter sank into a chair, hooked his boot over one knee and dropped the chart to rest on his leg. “Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Nobody expected anything different from the two of you when O’Connell showed.”
“What do you mean?”
A brow shot right toward Cutter’s dark hairline. “You’re yanking my chain, right? Your arguments are legendary. Tag once suggested tying you two together, gladiator-style, and just tossing you into the arena to have it out. Two walk in. One walks out. Colonel Dawson giving that signature thumbs-up and thumbs-down of his.”
Laughter stirred in Tanner’s chest, begging to be set free even though he knew it would drop-kick him right between the shoulder blades.
“Stop! No more jokes.” A chuckle sneaked through anyway, punting his muscles as predicted until he groaned. “Did she send you in here to torture me so I would laugh myself into traction?”
“Sorry.” Cutter smirked as he resumed flipping chart pages.
Tanner sagged back on his pillow. The gladiator image began to take on an odd fantasy appeal in his drug-impaired mind. At least the drugs offered a convenient excuse. Damn, but Kathleen would have made a magnificent warrior goddess. That woman never needed anyone.
The ultimate loner. Tanner’s muscles tightened in response. That loner mind-set proved a threat to the crew mentality essential to his Air Force doctrine. The Air Force, the team spirit, was everything to him.
Never leave your wingman.
Tanner raised the bed higher, ignoring even thoughts of discomfort. “Can’t you do something about this? Get me outa here and back in action with my crew. Man, you’re one of us. You have to know how crazy this is making me.”
While all flight surgeons specialized in treating flyers and their families, a handful of those doctors were also flyers themselves. Cutter being one of the few. Tanner couldn’t help but hope that might nudge the scales in his favor. “Well?”
“Sorry. Can’t help you, my friend. I’ve seen your chart. I know your history. O’Connell’s dead-on with her diagnosis, and there’s no mistaking her notations.”
“Figures I lucked into the one doctor on the planet with perfect penmanship.” Time to invest in an Armed Forces Television schedule.
“Yeah, you are lucky. Lucky she didn’t string you up like a piñata. We flight docs don’t take well to having our orders disregarded. If I were you, pal, I would start thinking up an apology.”
“The piñata sounds less painful.” Deep down, he knew he owed her better than that. She’d kept him in the game years ago when he’d wanted to quit.
“Kick back, pal. Take care of yourself. You were only weeks away from leaving your crew, anyway. You should be up to speed in time to upgrade.”
Should be. The words didn’t comfort Tanner any more than the Demerol.
What if the grounding became permanent? What would he do without his wings? His mother swore his first word had been plane. While other kids drew puppies and trees, he’d already perfected his own depiction of Captain Happy Plane. “Six weeks is a long time in a war. If something happens and I’m not there…”
Cutter closed the chart. “I hear you, and I understand what you’re feeling. But there’s nothing I can do.”
Last down and his field goal had fallen short. Tanner scrambled to salvage what he could for the rest of his team. “Look out for Lance. Okay? Make sure he gets a solid copilot.”
Cutter stilled. “Is there something I should know about?”
“Nothing specific. He’s just not…up to speed. He and Julia are having trouble again. Deployments and stress messing with another Air Force marriage—” Tanner stopped short. Hell of a thing to say to a guy only weeks away from the altar. “Oh, hey, sorry, bud.”
“No sweat. Lori and I know what we’re up against. Nobody said Air Force life was easy on the family. It’s going to be work.” A full-out smile creased all the way to his eyes. “She’s worth it.”
Tanner gave his friend an answering smile. “Congratulations.”
Cutter nodded, then thunked the bed rail with Tanner’s chart. “Now get well. Lori’ll kill me if my best man falls on his face halfway through the ceremony. Look on the bright side. You won’t have to haul yourself across the Atlantic on a civilian flight to make the wedding. You can head back on the tanker with me next week.”
“Great. Nothing like sitting in the back seat.” Tanner’s hands already itched to be in control.
From the day he’d drawn that first airplane, he’d known he would be a pilot. Forget he was a poor kid working two after-school jobs to help support his single mom and twin sister. Course set, he’d achieved his goals, Air Force Academy, pilot. He’d never wavered in his focus. Except for the night he’d heard his sister died.
The night he’d kissed Kathleen O’Connell.
Chapter 3
Kathleen hovered in the doorway of Tanner’s hospital room, unable to draw her gaze away from the man who had filled her thoughts too often that morning. Flat on his back, he took up the whole bed. A dimple flashed in his unshaven jaw as he laughed with Cutter. Tanner’s exuberance for life hadn’t dimmed, even after a downing injury and a hefty shot of Demerol.
She watched the two men talk with their hands, typical flyer “talk,” their hands flying tandem aerial maneuvers.
Her guard perilously shaky of late, she envied them their camaraderie, the easy exchange apparent in most flyers. She knew better than to blame their exclusion on her being a woman. Years of growing up the misfit in her family had left her with the assurance she simply didn’t get it. Relationships. Her ex had confirmed the conclusion through his lawyer.
So she stood alone in the hospital doorway, feeling too damn much like the little girl who perched in trees with a book about bugs. All the while peering down at a blanket full of her sisters and their friends having a tea party picnic.
Tanner’s laughter rumbled out into the hall. Teams and partnerships bemused her. She understood in theory, but in practice…she couldn’t make it work. The flyers respected her yet didn’t include her. Her nickname—or lack of one—being a prime example.
Flight surgeons were sometimes given honorary call signs, like Grayson “Cutter” Clark or Monica “Hippocrates” Hyatt. Kathleen was just “Doc,” the generic appellation afforded any doctor who hadn’t received the distinction of a naming party.
Not that she wanted to change herself just to be a part of some flyers’ club. Flying solo offered fewer risks.
Before
