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 a careful breath. “Hi, Chelsea. Do you remember me from earlier today?”
No reaction. The waif by the window continued to stare. He glanced at her chart again to remind himself of the medications Dr. Cordoba had prescribed.
He made a note to lower the dosage to see if it had any effect. He wanted to help Chelsea cope, not turn her into a zombie.
Jessi went over to her daughter and dropped to her knees, taking the young woman’s hands in hers and looking up at her. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
“I want to go home.” The words were soft. So soft, Clint almost missed them.
Jessi hadn’t, though. Her chin wobbled for a second, before she drew her spine up. “I want that, too, baby. More than anything. But you’re not ready. You know you’re not.”
“I know.” The response was just as soft. She turned to look back out the window, as if tuning out anything that didn’t get her what she wanted.
Clint knew Chelsea’s reaction was a defense mechanism, but having her own daughter shut her out had to shred Jessi’s insides even though she was absolutely doing what was right for Chelsea.
