Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) (10 page)

“Okay
. . .
” Kait paused, her focus zeroing in on Rawls again. “So how about we talk about you?”

How ’bout not.

Her eyes narrowed as though she sensed his resistance. “What happened to you out there? What’s going on?”

“Go ahead, Doc. Tell her. I dare ya,” Pachico said, smug amusement in his voice.

“Nothin’.” Time to make a speedy exit. “Look, darlin’. I need to fill Faith in on your talents.”

“You fucking coward.”

Pachico’s voice was farther away, but Rawls didn’t dare glance at him to see what the bastard was up to. Not with Kait in the room. Besides, in his current translucent condition, his ghost wasn’t much of a threat.

“Rawls!” Her foot started tapping.

How the hell was he supposed to fill her in on something he didn’t even understand himself? What if he admitted to Pachico’s haunting only to realize that the whole damn experience was a hallucination manufactured by his oxygen-deprived mind? No—he’d wait until he’d had a chance to talk to Wolf and find out what the man knew before he made an admission he couldn’t retract later.

“Not now,” he said quietly, relaxing as her eyes softened.

A loud, metallic clang echoed behind them. Startled, he and Kait swung around.

“I’ll be damned.” Pachico’s voice thinned, wavering in and out of range. “
. . .
changes
. . .
the game.” His translucent form faded until it was barely visible.

Rawls walked over, dread congealing within him. On the other side of the counter, a good three feet from the sprawling cookies, sat the metal tray. Chocolate chip cookies surrounded it.

“How in the world
. . .
” Kait shook her head, a dumbfounded expression on her face. “Maybe the stack toppled.” She shook her head again. “But that doesn’t explain how the tray ended up way over there. It’s almost like someone threw it, but there’s only me and you in the room.”

Oh, there was another person in the command center. She just couldn’t see him. Rawls glanced toward Pachico’s transparent form, only to do a double take. At least up until a second ago there had been three of them in the room, but just like he’d done when Wolf had approached them out by the stream, Pachico had vanished.

Chapter Six

F
ROZEN ON THE
bed, Faith stared at the door Rawls had just bolted through—the key word being
bolted
. He’d vacated the room with all the finesse of a virgin fleeing the scene of an orgy.

Well, that was unexpected.

What exactly was she supposed to make of his reaction? He’d fled with such intensity he’d left the stethoscope behind, still tucked beneath her shirt. Absently, she removed the instrument and laid it on the mattress beside her.

He’d been as caught up in the passionate moment as she’d been. It was easy enough to identify the signs of desire. His pupils had dilated. His face had hardened. A hooded, predatory expression had touched his eyes. Thick ribbons of red had delineated his cheekbones. And then there’d been his mouth. Those thin, mobile lips had even swelled slightly. He’d broadcasted his hunger with every inch of his face. There was no doubt in her mind he’d wanted her, craved her as much as she’d craved him. Nor did she doubt he’d recognized the indicators of arousal on her face.

Although you wouldn’t guess it from his awkward flight from the room, the man was sexually experienced. That had been abundantly clear all those months ago while she’d been swooning over him at the airport. He’d returned numerous admiring feminine glances with good-natured silent flirting. The man was comfortable around women.

So why had he scrambled off the bed and fled?

It had been so sudden too. One second he’d been as mired in the moment as she’d been, and the next he was gone.

With a confused shrug, she slid off the bed and straightened her rumpled white blouse and smoothed the wrinkles from her linen slacks. It was rather amazing how Wolf had managed to replace her abandoned wardrobe with clothes so perfectly in line with her tastes, yet without asking her for her size or personal preferences.

Had he had the same success with Amy, Kait, and Beth? From what she’d seen so far, he’d brought the other three women a different array of clothes—although mostly jeans and T-shirts. How had he known she’d preferred a different style? Just one more question to add to her growing unanswered list.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, she headed out the door. The cabin was quiet and cool as she passed through. Apparently Rawls had abandoned his home away from home entirely. But then, the satellite phone was housed in the command center. As far as she knew, none of the individual cabins had access to a line outside the compound. Although she suspected Wolf had a second phone in his cabin. It made sense that the person in charge of the camp would have access to a private mode of communication with his superiors.

If Rawls had gone after the sat phone as he’d claimed, he was probably still at the command center. There went her plans for getting an early start on dinner. Faith hesitated before changing directions and heading for her cabin instead of the main lodge. She had plenty of time to get the roast in the oven—might as well give him time to clear out.

Forty-five minutes later she left her cabin and approached the main lodge from an angle. Peering through the windows, she scanned the room for Rawls. While she wanted to get a start on dinner, she didn’t relish the thought of tiptoeing around residual tension.

Her spying served her well. Not only was Rawls in the lodge, so was Kait. The two were wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so close their blond heads blended together.

An uncomfortable burning seared her chest. A sensation she’d never experienced, yet immediately recognized at a visceral level. Jealousy—which was insane. She had no claim on the man. He could hug anyone he pleased. Besides, Kait was committed to Cosky, which meant the hug was likely platonic rather than romantic.

Some of the acid bile climbing her throat settled. She eased back from the window. It would be just too humiliating to be caught peering inside the lodge like some seedy Peeping Tom. As she backed away from the glass, the couple inside broke apart and commenced chatting.

Once clear of the window, she tiptoed around to the back of the lodge. The thought of returning to her cabin and waiting for Kait and Rawls to vacate the command center—and more importantly, the kitchen—didn’t sit well. The silence and boredom would give her way too much time to overthink. During moments of stress she had a habit of blowing gopher hills into mountain peaks. But taking a walk would leave her with just as much free time, which presented the same opportunity to overcomplicate things. What she really needed was that kitchen, and the soothing effects of cooking.

By the time she’d infused some steel into her spine and girded herself to march around the corner and take command of the kitchen, Kait and Rawls were leaving the lodge.

Perfect.

Faith waited until they’d disappeared into their respective cabins before emerging from her hiding place. As she’d expected, her haven stood empty. Relaxing, she got down to the business of seasoning the fifteen-pound pork roast taking up half the shelf in the industrial-sized refrigerator. It would take somewhere around six hours to cook, which would put dinner at six p.m. Mackenzie and his crew, plus Amy and her boys, should be back by then. She’d make the dough for the biscuits as soon as the roast was in the oven, but wait to bake them until the meat was out and cooling. It wouldn’t hurt to combine the applesauce, brown sugar, vinegar, and cloves for the basting either. Plenty of time to take care of that after the biscuits were made.

She’d preheated the oven to 350, peeled and sliced several cloves of garlic, and cut slots in the roast to insert the garlic, when the door to the lodge opened. Faith froze with her back to the intruder. There were four possibilities as to the identity of the interloper—Beth, Kait, Wolf’s watch dog, or Rawls. Her money was on Rawls, and sure enough, when she turned around, that’s exactly who was eyeing her warily from across the kitchen counter.

“Hey,” he said, after a noticeable hesitation, discomfort and caution darkening his blue eyes.

“I just started dinner,” she blurted the information out—only to silently cringe—as though he couldn’t see that fact for himself.

This current of unease was exactly what she’d wanted to avoid. With a deep internal sigh, she stiffened her shoulders. Things couldn’t get much more strained between them, might as well clear the air and bring the invisible pink elephant into the open.

“Look. It’s obvious I’m attracted to you and you’re attracted to me. That’s plain human nature, and nothing we need to tiptoe around.” Look at her, being all grown up and mature about the situation when six days earlier she’d refused to allow him near her wounds for fear he’d realize how attractive she found him. “What happened in your bedroom was perfectly natural and nothing to get all bothered about.” She floundered, feeling like she’d lost her point somewhere. “Just because we feel the attraction doesn’t mean we have to act on it.” She stumbled into silence, all platituded out.

His eyes lost focus and his head started to turn.

Faith glanced in the direction he was turning, but didn’t see or hear anything. “What’s wrong?”

He froze and jerked back to face her, a mask sweeping over his face.

“Nothin’.” He hesitated and then his face softened. “Look, this has nothin’ to do with you. The timin’ sucks, you know? I mean to start somethin’ up . . .”

His voice suddenly picked up speed and strength like he was trying to talk over the radio, even though the room was silent. She could tell the moment he realized what he was doing, and forced his volume back down.

“Things are kinda
. . .
” He frowned, and looked down. “I’m not in a place
. . .
” With a slow shake of his head, he ran a tense hand through his blond hair, leaving it rumpled and sexy. “Yeah, the timin’ just sucks.”

Why in the world would his halting explanation spark regret instead of relief? Since she didn’t want to examine that question too closely, she concentrated on a question she did want an answer to. “Did you get hold of Wolf?”

“That I did. Your medications will be on the next chopper out,” he said, his eyes losing focus again.

She smiled in relief at the good news, but the emotion soon faded. From the tension on his face, and the nerve twitching in his cheek, something was wrong. “Then what’s the problem?”

That brought his attention back to her again, at least for a second. But then the stack of chocolate chip cookies suddenly mesmerized him. He just stood there, totally still, and stared at them.

Okay, this is weird. Is he in some kind of cookie-induced trance?

“They’re for eating.” She intended the comment as a joke, but it came out entirely too soft and serious.

He started, as though he’d forgotten she was there. But he instantly rallied, an expression of determination descending on his face. “I did some lookin’ into heart transplants online after talkin’ to Wolf.”

Uh-oh.

From the shadow building in his eyes, he hadn’t liked what he’d found.

“Okay
. . .
” She rolled the word out cautiously.

He ran his hand through his hair again, rumpling it even more. “You said you had your heart transplant when you were fourteen—fifteen years ago.”

“Actually
. . .
” She caught herself and dragged her eyes from the gleaming mop of blond hair. In her appreciative daze she’d almost corrected him. She’d had the second transplant at fourteen, the first one had been the year before. However, that information wasn’t necessary for him to know. “That’s right.”

He grunted. An honest-to-God grunt that somehow managed to sound disapproving.

“Accordin’ to every article I found, the average viability of a transplanted pediatric heart is eleven years.”

Faith cocked her head and eyed him with curiosity. Where was he going with this? “I’m aware of that.”

“Your transplant was fifteen years ago. You’re four years past the average lifespan now.” He reminded her tightly, shoving his hand through his hair again.

“I’m aware of that too.” She shot another glance at his gleaming white-gold head. Maybe this constant scalp massage was his secret to such a thick, sexy head of hair.

“Sweet Jesus.” The words broke from him softly. He caught her gaze and held it, then gave an oddly resigned shrug. “Then you have to know you’ve reached the end of your heart’s viability.”

She frowned slightly, scanning his face. “Of course I know. But there’s no benefit in obsessing over something I have no control over.” A transparent truth she’d never been able to convince her parents of. “I’ve done everything possible to keep this heart healthy and to prolong its lifespan. Now it’s a waiting game.”

Waiting for her heart to fail. Waiting to get back on the transplant list. Waiting for a donor match. For as far back as she could remember, her life had been a game of wait and see. Even these last—relatively healthy—fifteen years had been marred by a sense of wariness
. . .
of expectation
. . .
the certainty that at some point her heart would act up again
. . .
and the stressful, frightening cycle would start for a third time. Only this time she might not come out the other end alive.

She cut off the cold shadow of fear and focused on the here and now. “It’s best to concentrate on what you can control, not what you can’t.”

She offered the rationale as much for her benefit as his. It never hurt to remind oneself of universal truths.

“What if there were somethin’ you could do, now, to increase your heart’s sustainability?” Rawls asked slowly, back to choosing his words with extreme care.

Just what the heck was he hinting at? Faith studied his shadowed face for clues. “You mean exercise? Diet? Been there, doing that.”

“Nah, I mean—” This time he ran both hands, in tandem, through his hair hard enough that she could hear the rasp of his nails scraping his scalp. “Look, this is gonna sound crazy, so hear me out, okay?”

Intrigued, Faith raised her eyebrows. It cost her nothing to listen. “Okay.”

“I’m guessin’ you haven’t realized this yet, or you would have said somethin’
. . .
asked about it
. . .
” He rolled his shoulders and rocked from foot to foot, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Kait’s half-Arapaho—son-of-a-bitch!”

He suddenly flinched and jerked his arm hard to the right. Cradling his elbow against his chest, he scowled, his head turning from right to left, as though he were looking for something
. . .
or someone.

What the heck was wrong with him?

“Are you okay?” she asked, watching him with concern.

“Just a
. . .
just a cramp in my arm,” he said in a tight voice.

Okay . . . so why don’t I believe him? Besides . . .
“What does Kait’s ethnicity have to do with my heart?”

He jerked back to face her, but his gaze continually flitted to the left, toward the cookies.

“If you want one that bad, just take one,” she said.

He growled something nasty under his breath, and she could actually see the struggle between his fixation on the stack of cookies and his willpower. Why was he so determined to resist the craving? He’d eaten her cookies before. After several uncomfortable seconds, he finally wrestled his full attention back to her.

“It’s through her Arapaho blood that she’s able to heal.” He dropped the words slowly and deliberately into the conversation and let them just hang there, echoing in the silent room.

It took a second for his meaning to register. “What did you say? Surely you don’t mean
. . .
”

He had to be teasing her, but
. . .
the expression on his face was all too serious. Faith took a cautious step back, which was silly since the kitchen counter still separated them. “Heal?”

“Kait has the ability to heal with her hands. It doesn’t work all the time—maybe thirty percent—but when it does work, she can do some pretty incredible things.”

“Thirty percent of the time
. . .
” Faith repeated. How convenient.

Apparently Kait’s healing ability came with an escape clause. If the patient wasn’t miraculously healed after Kait’s laying on of hands—well, heck, she’d just claim they fell into the seventy percent that couldn’t be treated. What an ingenious excuse for failing.