Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (43 page)

In that moment she realized she’d never really had to trust God for anything. Her salvation—age six. Her father had died when she was three, but Bryce had always been there, being a father to her and a man of the house for her mother. That was rough, but she’d made it through her teen years unscathed. She’d married Max young, enamored by the Navy SEAL and his bulging muscles. His passionate intensity. His smile.

Like the gift of salvation, she didn’t deserve this baby after trekking into a dark heart of the world.
But please. I want my baby
. More tears streamed.

The stethoscope lifted, and he placed it against her left breast, snapping her attention. “Your ticker’s running a little fast there. Try to relax; take it easy.”

Take it easy? He wanted her to take it easy? Why? Was he about to say her son had died? Was he trying to brace her? She squeezed her eyes shut as more tears threatened.

“Hey,” he said in a soothing voice. “Easy there. Here, take a listen.”

She opened her eyes, surprised to find him handing her the stethoscope. She accepted it gingerly, her fingers shaking as they wrapped around the cold metal. Once she placed the buds in her ears, he set the scope against her belly. A flurry of static bled into her ears. “I don’t—”

Whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp
.

She gasped hard, her lips parting as wild hope danced through her chest. Her eyes darted to the medic, a laugh bubbling through. “He’s …”

“Quite healthy.” Fix smiled. “And first order of business is getting you hydrated to get your BP up. Then make sure you sit at every op. Stay put.” As he pushed out of the covered area, he joined Ghost One, who seemed to be waiting for a report.

Lane eased in next to her with a broad smile. “I heard.”

“I’ve been so stupid coming all the way out here,” she said, watching as Ghost One whispered to the medic before disappearing around the side. The medic glanced back at her with a lengthy stare. He then signaled to someone, and a second later another soldier stood outside the door as the medic left. It was as if they were guarding her.

What was going on?

Later

S
he wasn’t supposed to leave him like this. They were supposed to live to an old age, growing closer in wrinkles and heart. Till death do us part. Jon smoothed back Kimber’s hair, her forehead still warm in spite of the fact her heart no longer worked to thrust blood through her veins.

Emptiness consumed him, deep and starving. If that fool leader hadn’t ordered him to lie down like a dog and watch his wife die, they might’ve saved her.

I didn’t want to leave
. Through a crooked smile and raspy words, Kimber had tried to encourage him, to tell him that she was okay with dying here. But he knew that. She wanted to stay here. Even with the bustling around the camp, the return of the soldiers with two more civilians, Jon sat in his own grief, unable to release her.

Anger flowed free and raw.

The medic had already promised they’d carry her out so she could have a burial back in the States. Only Jon knew Kimber wouldn’t want a ceremony with pomp and flair. She was a simple woman. Loved the people of this island. Loved this island. If their family wouldn’t object so loudly, he would ask the soldiers to dig a grave and bury her here.

“Her body leaves,” Kezia whispered next to him, wide brown eyes darting to his. “But her heart always here.”

Although grief held him tight and made it difficult to breathe, he couldn’t regret this or regret staying when the warnings came to get off the island. “If he’d just let us try …”

“Not even a soldier can defy God’s hand.”

Startled by her words, Jon stared at her wide brown eyes … and realized she was right. He hung his head. “You’re right.” A piece of him wanted to blame Frogman for the decision that sent them hiding like cowards and left Kimber to die. But he had seen the torment in the man’s face despite the paint and tough facade.
He’s as much a man as I am
. Could he forgive the man? That he wanted someone to hate tore at him almost as much as his wife’s passing. Kimber had battled the dengue fever valiantly, and in the end, that’s probably what left her vulnerable to death’s grip—not the fact that the medic had been ordered to stop compressions. Even Fix had said she’d been too weak to fight. Maybe if she hadn’t had the fevers.

If “ifs” and “ands” were pots and pans
… How many times had she’d quoted that to him, hinting at the difference between wanting and having?
Ifs
did nothing to help the circumstances. Only God could control what happened. But why had God let Kimber die?

Jon tucked aside the questions. He’d learned long ago that those questions served no purpose other than to create a wide chasm between man and God. It was impossible to understand the ways of God. And Jon certainly wasn’t going to try to drag God’s divine actions down to something understandable. Kimber was gone. On her beloved island. A hole gaped in his soul over the emptiness of life without her.

Bittersweet sorrow laced his pain into a box. He tucked it into the inner recesses of his heart. If only he could be as strong as Kimber had been, maybe he would handle this better. Maybe he’d even rescue the man who’d come to rescue him.

C
ursed. That’s what he was. Completely cursed. Max clenched his fist. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. They’d encountered one obstacle after another, all ones that shouldn’t have existed. The chopper couldn’t show up for whatever reason. Probably got run off by the attack chopper that clipped the life from the missionary woman. Now they’d have to hike down the mountain, risking injury and exposure, to reach a secondary extraction point.

Pray.

He grunted. Right. He’d made it this long without it.
Yeah, and look how that went
.

Shoving aside the niggling thought, Max trudged up the slope back toward the falls, wincing at the fresh pain in his cheek. Fix had stitched it, promised a souvenir scar and all. But for Max, it was a reminder. A reminder that he’d failed. That he had let Kimber Harris die.

But he hadn’t had a choice. They would’ve all died!

If it were Syd, if she’d been shot or if she’d died in that explosion, he’d go ballistic. Take a flying leap straight into heaven just to have it out with God. Why would God let a sweet missionary woman, a wife and mother, die so needlessly? Nightshade had arrived in time. Where were the angels who were supposed to intervene and protect God’s children? He didn’t get it.

Just as he crested the hill, he stopped short. Jon Harris stood next to the small pool where water plummeted down the mountain to the bay. The churning, foaming wake of where the falls met the pool seemed to mirror the turbulence of this trip. Yet that turmoil was absent from Jon Harris. Why wasn’t the man railing against the injustice? Was he mad at Max, angry for the call he’d had to make?

Jon shifted and looked at Max then hung his head. “I … I want you to know I don’t blame you.”

The revelation impaled him. The man should be punching his lights out. Why wasn’t he? This didn’t make any sense.

“I know you had to do what was best for the team, that your mission is Kezia and getting her out of here.” Jon’s voice hitched. “I … I forgive you.”

“For—” Max bit his tongue. Balled his fists. “I killed your wife!”

Watery blue eyes came to Max’s. Then a slow smile. “No.” He wiped a hand under his nose. “She died here in her beloved jungle. Sure, it hurts something fierce … but we both know she was already dying.”

Max considered the man, heart whooshing.

“I know you don’t like what you did, and I appreciate your anger over her death.”

“You appreciate my anger?”

Jon grinned this time, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s a masking emotion, anger.” He shrugged. “I was a psychology major before coming out here. Anger masks fears.” He sniffled. “Kimber probably would’ve died before the helicopter came, but I just … kept hoping. Praying.” A cool mist rose from the water and seemed to enshroud the man. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. You made—” His chin quivered. But he drew himself tall and sighed. “You made the right decision, Frogman.”

Max darted a glance to the makeshift camp, shaking his head, frantic to get the guy to understand ….

“You should forgive yourself, too. It was out of your control.”

Max snapped his gaze up then yanked it down. Forgive himself? Out of his control? Wasn’t everything these days? His gaze pinged to the camp, to Midas and Fix placing the woman’s body into a bag.

“I, uh, asked them not to cover her face.”

Teeth clenched tight, Max stood rigid. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to be the man’s confessional. Didn’t want to play church in the middle of a deadly jungle. Didn’t anybody get that he didn’t do emotion?

The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart from other men
. It was right there in the SEAL creed—he didn’t do pain.

He ran from it.

The truth stung and startled him. Was it true? No, he faced ugly head on. Except … guilt clawed at him. The chatter of jungle life pecked at his conscience. Why else would he so readily head into the wild, the deserts, the places of extreme danger?

To get away from what was inside him.

“I never thought this would happen,” Jon said, snatching Max from his internal diatribe. He stretched on his tiptoes, his head tilted back as he stared up at the canopy of palms. “Trusted God, came here. We were so happy.”

Happy never lasts. Max could relate. “Then God yanks her out of your arms.”

Jon snapped his gaze to Max, a yellowish tint from the dawn sky on his skin. “No, not really,” he said, his voice soft but strong. “Kimber loved this island. Loved the people. She never wanted to leave. I always knew she’d die here. Just … not this soon.”

Stupefied, Max stared at the man. Was he really not angry?

“I mean, don’t get me wrong.” Jon sniffled and wiped his nose. “I’m devastated over Kimber’s …. Grief is a long process.” A not-so-brave smile. “There’s a piece of me already missing, but no.” He again shot a clear, focused gaze in Max’s direction. “I’m not mad at God. Or you. Kimber loved Him and loved serving Him. I’m not going to waste time being angry when it’s nothing I have control over—she taught me that.”

Max’s mind sped to the story of King David when his son with Bathsheba died under a move of God’s hand for David’s sins. When word came that the boy had died, David got up from his grieving and praying, dusted himself off, and went back to work, saying he could not change what had happened.

But that was then. Old Testament. Eons ago. How could Jon Harris—

“I spent my youth angry, rebelling.” He smiled, a distant haze taking over his eyes. “Then I met Kimber. That’s when I knew God had given me a second chance. Now? Now I just want to remember the good and raise our daughter in honor of her mother’s memory.”

“I think I’d be on a rampage.” The thought coiled around Max’s gut, remembering how close someone had come to murdering Sydney and knowing that she could’ve been the one in that house explosion—not her mother.

And why hadn’t Cowboy reported in yet?

“Anger doesn’t solve anything. She’s still gone.”Jon considered him. “Do you have a wife?”

Max dropped his gaze. “I did.” He blew out a hot breath. “She filed for separation five months ago.”

The missionary pivoted, his hands in the pockets of his torn pants. “Do you still love her?”

“It’s over. Too late for second chances.”

A slow smile filled Jon’s face. “It’s never too late. With God, anything’s possible.”

“Time ran out on me two years ago. She didn’t deserve what I dished out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Didn’t know how.” Why was he telling this stranger his darkest secrets?

“But you do now?”