Lodestar Lassoed: Explosion Series

By Felicity Black

 

There are two things worse than the Myanmar mission going FUBAR: hospital imprisonment and being sidelined. So, when Reagan Kline walks in my room, I take interest. Not only is she a bombshell, she declares I'm the beneficiary of her non-profit's partnership with warriors recovering from injuries. Because she's a hellcat who can't bear to simply volunteer, she takes over my physical therapy. It's no hardship to have her hands all over me, I'll say that.

Athletic, gorgeous, brilliant, witty. Add her penchant for high octane thrills—she's pure as an angel with a pinch of Lucifer. While she certainly checks all my boxes, she seems to view our relationship as clinical in nature. What she doesn't account for is that I'm a SEAL—eventually, I'll overcome her defense tactics and win her over. The thing is BUD/s didn't teach me how to lasso a lodestar. I'm so fixated on breaching her stronghold, I never consider that achieving my end goal would be the beginning of the actual fight of my life.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stardust Romance
• Release date: Sep 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215415023

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

REAGAN

The ping of my watch reminds me I have forty-five minutes until I need to get across town.

I still have fifteen minutes left with my patient. Let’s see…twenty minutes to get to the hospital, ten to find a parking spot, and ten to walk from the parking lot to the ICU. If I’m lucky, I can run through the drive-thru and grab some dinner to scarf down on the way.

I apply resistance to my patient’s forearm. Ron, have you been doing your exercises at home? Ron is a Vietnam veteran rehabbing from shoulder surgery.

Ron winces. Two times a day. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to do physical therapy longer than necessary. I hate Linda having to drive me to these appointments, let alone sitting there watching me do these damn exercises for an hour.

I laugh as I look over at his wife of forty-five years in our lobby with her hands folded. Ah, I think Linda likes seeing you get tortured.

Damn straight, she does. That woman loves this! Ron sighs as I start some range of motion exercises.

I want to tell Ron about where I am heading after work, but I can’t risk starting that conversation now. Ron’s a talker, and I’m already tight on time.

I smile as I rotate his arm counterclockwise. Alright, Mr. Wilson. You survived another PT session. Keep it up, and you’ll be discharged in fourteen weeks.

Fourteen weeks? Are you trying to kill me, woman? How about ten? Ron slowly rises from his chair. His wife fiddles with the umbrella, although it’s barely sprinkling outside.

We’ll have to see about that, Ron, I laugh. I’ll see you on Thursday. Same time.

Ugh, don’t remind me. Ron frowns as he shuffles toward the lobby. Linda, don’t open that thing inside. That’s seven years of bad luck, you know. Marines have no use for umbrellas, anyway, Ron huffs.

I smirk as I rush to finish charting before I blitz toward my car. I start the engine, quickly reverse out of my spot, and drive to the stoplight for the access road to my clinic.

Why does this light always take an eternity to change? I forgot to include the four-minute wait at this light in my commute calculation. Damn it!

I grip the steering wheel anxiously, and my knuckles turn even whiter. Just breathe. I rotate my clenched hands on the wheel nervously. Breathe in…two…three…four…five…and out. I slowly exhale as I count.

After Lindsey Moore’s husband died in combat on his fifth tour in the Middle East, I decided to create an organization to partner with soldiers and veterans. My organization would do anything from helping injured military personnel and veterans with everyday tasks like picking up medication, to taking them to medical appointments, to cooking and bringing meals over.

Finally. The light changes to green, and I peel out onto Georgia Avenue. I glance at the clock on my dashboard. 5:05 PM so…I mentally convert the time to 1705. Ugh.

The rain picks up to a drizzle, and I flick my wipers up two speeds. My mind drifts to Lindsey. Her husband died a hero five months ago, and it destroyed me that the community support for his grieving widow was now non-existent. Lindsey worked full-time as a nurse and was raising her thirteen-month-old girl and seven-year-old little boy by herself.

On the flight home after Brian was buried, I decided to found Moore 4 Soldiers in his honor. Every night since then, I’d worked on the paperwork to get the organization approved as a non-profit.

I drafted our mission and values and created a volunteer application. I wrote the content for our website and social media. I begged my neighbor, a graphic designer, to create a logo. I paid for a web domain. I researched how to add a donation feature to our web-based platforms. I opened a bank account.

Two minutes later, I hit another light as I wait to merge onto East-West Highway. I glare at the sign warning me not to turn right on red, willing it to disappear. Why are the stoplight gods against me today?

I impatiently start to think about the events leading up to this moment. A month ago, I met with my college boyfriend, Dr. Sean Mason. I hadn’t spoken to him in nine years. But he was a means to the end I desperately needed.

Sean is a fellow in the Trauma Unit at Walter Reed. I explained my vision and basically groveled for the hospital to partner with my non-profit to give soldiers injured in combat the opportunity to be matched with a volunteer the moment a wounded warrior was admitted.

If a solider didn’t have any readily identifiable family or next of kin, he’d have a better chance of rehabilitating with a partner. A cheerleader. A friend.

A week ago, I received a letter from the IRS officially approving my organization as tax-exempt.

The very next day, Dr. Mason signed the documentation allowing our volunteers to come to the trauma unit and visit with the beating hearts of our nation. And today, I am about to become our very first volunteer.

As soon as the light turns green, I’m Danica Patrick. I weave through the lanes of East-West Highway like this is the Indy 500.

Adrenaline is my fuel. Time is against me. My enemies are the drivers to my left and right.

I veer into the hospital parking lot. I quickly glance at my dashboard clock, which angrily glows 5:34 PM. Only eleven minutes to find a parking spot and get to the ICU.

Of course the parking lot gods would be conspiring with the stoplight gods. Damn it! My head pivots back and forth as I pray the gods show me the way to an empty spot.

Suddenly, I see taillights reverse out of a parking spot. I race ahead and throw my left blinker on. This spot is mine, bitches.

My knuckles blanch, again, as I strangle the steering wheel. Why is this guy the world’s slowest driver?

Finally! I swerve into the spot, slam the gear shift into park, and cut the engine. I throw open my car door, jump out, and hurl it shut.

Then the downpour starts. I sprint toward the ICU as I curse silently at the rain gods.

I hold my wrist up to peek at the time. 1743. Fuck! At least my watch has a military time option. My thirteen-year-old Ford Focus is so…American.

I rush inside Walter Reed and speed walk toward the ICU. The drips from my pullover leave a trail of water behind me.

I despise being late. I start to calculate. Five minutes late…five full-court suicides per minute…twenty-five suicides. I’ll have to do those tonight at the gym after I leave here.

I rush into the ICU. I instantly see a nurse seated behind a computer. I’m Reagan Kline here to see Dr. Mason. Do you know where he is?

Room 12, the nurse points her pen tip down the hall.

I race into the room. Then, for the first time in fifty minutes, time stops.

My feet suddenly can’t move. My eyes widen at the man lying before me. Both of his arms are wrapped in bandages, immobilized, and propped at his sides with pillows.

His right leg is wrapped in thick bandages from his toes to his groin and held at an incline. There are pins protruding out of his ankle and knee.

The right side of his chest is wrapped in bandages, only exposing his shoulder and a bare triangular patch of skin over his ribs.

The front right of his head is shaved, and some gauze covers the area. There’s dried blood visibly caked in his hair.

His face. Dear God! His face. Moist, mesh-like material drapes over the abrasions, burns, and cuts.

I hold my breath and close my eyes. I hear the saline drip, the steady chirp of the machine monitoring his vitals, and the oxygen pump. A life supported by machines is a stark juxtaposition to the sound of my heartbeat.

I open my eyes and see Dr. Mason typing. Sean, I whisper.

He looks up from the computer monitor and stands as he clasps my outstretched hand in his. Hi, Reagan, Sean murmurs. This is Ryland—

An alarm starts dinging, and an oxygen warning appears on the vitals monitor. Sean silences the monitor and holds his stethoscope to Ryland’s chest while he listens. He quietly moves the stethoscope to five other locations on Ryland’s chest, including the patch of exposed skin on his ribs.

Sean pulls the stethoscope out of his ears and looks back at me. His left lung is in critical condition, and his right lung is also failing, he explains.

What happened? I manage to whisper.

We don’t know much other than there was an explosion of some sort. We’re working with the Navy to identify any family….

Sean looks at Ryland briefly and then back at me. Reagan, the next forty-eight hours are vital. His odds of surviving are twenty-five percent. Some studies put his odds higher if he has a loved one at his side during this time. We haven’t found anyone—

I’ll do it, Sean. I know I am not family, but someone is better than no one. I won’t be able to think about anything else other than being here, anyway, I reason.

I was hoping you’d say that, Sean says with a small side smile. I had forgotten he did that.

Sean continues, Nurses will be by every fifteen minutes to check on stats. If an alarm goes off on the monitor and a nurse doesn’t come within fifteen seconds, hit this red button, he gestures toward the remote laying on Ryland’s bedside table.

Thank you, Sean, I whisper.

Sean grabs my hand. I’m glad you reached out, Reagan. It’s been…too long. He suddenly realizes my hand is still in his and pulls it away quickly.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a business card and a pen. He clicks the pen cap and scribbles something on the back of the card.

This is my personal cell. If anything changes with Ryland tonight, call me. Text if you think of anything you forgot to ask, and it’s not urgent. I will be in at 0700 for rounds and will check in then.  

He looks at me wistfully. Goodnight, Sunshine. It is so good to see you. He smiles as he walks out of the room.

His Sunshine Rea. I’d buried that memory, too.

CHAPTER TWO

REAGAN

Ipull a chair away from the wall. My eyebrows furrow as I wonder where I should put it. I can’t hold either of his hands…

I drag the chair to the other side of the gurney and sit. I reach my hand out to touch Ryland’s leg and then stop.

Will this hurt him? I should have asked.

I glance at my watch. 1813. Sean left…seventeen minutes ago. I’ll just text him.

I pull out my phone, tug out the card he gave me out of my purse, and turn it over. Hhm. Same phone number.

Hi, Sean. It’s Reagan. Didn’t know if you still had my number. Would it be okay if I touch Ryland? Maybe his left thigh/knee area? I don’t want to cause any pain.

He’s probably still driving. The nurse will be here in two minutes, anyway, and I can just ask her.

I place my phone in my lap and look up at Ryland’s face. Hi, Ryland. I’m Reagan, I say softly. We’ve never met before. I’m a volunteer with a non-profit called Moore 4 Soldiers. I actually am its founder, and you’re the very first participant in our program.

My phone pings, and I angle it upward from my lap to look at the screen:

Yes, light touch is okay. Left thigh/knee area is fine.

I release my phone and reach out to gently lay my hand on Ryland’s knee. I feel my chest tighten.

Now is not the time to panic!

I close my eyes and inhale as I count to five and then exhale for five counts. I repeat my breathing exercises six more times until my chest releases a little.

Mrs. Knight? I startle as I open my eyes and gaze at a woman in scrubs standing next to me. I’m Krista, and I’ll be your husband’s nurse for the night.

Ryland Knight.

Oh, umm… I stammer, I’m just a volunteer. Reagan, I smile as I cautiously extend my hand to shake hers. I’m with Moore 4 Soldiers. We’re a new non-profit. We’re like…a Big Brothers, Big Sisters except for soldiers and veterans.

She smiles back. How fantastic! Y’all will definitely be a blessin’ ’round here. Her southern twang is fantastic.

Krista jiggles the mouse, and the computer monitor lights up. After a few keystrokes, she puts her stethoscope in her ears and listens as she holds the other end on Ryland’s chest. She hangs the stethoscope around her neck as she starts typing again.

She scans a vial and then starts to draw its contents into a syringe. This is an antibiotic, she says as she slowly injects the medicine in his IV. Just a post-surgery preventative against infections.  

How do his lungs sound? I ask.

Krista re-caps the IV and says, There’s no change, darlin’. He’s got a heart of steel, though. Regular rhythm; strong pulse.

I gently rub Ryland’s knee as I look at his lifeless body. Did you hear that? You’re made of the strongest stuff of this Earth. I smile meekly. I need you to channel that and stay with me.

Krista puts the computer monitor to sleep and walks toward the door. I’ll be in to check on him every fifteen minutes. Do you need anything, sweetie?

My gaze remains fixed on Ryland. No, thanks. I hear the door shut as Krista leaves.

What now? I can’t be bound to this chair, even by ropes and shrouded in a straitjacket. I have one speed: balls to the wall. The more adrenaline pumping, the better.

My eyes flick to the life stilled before me. I’m so self-centered. He can’t even move, and my entire existence is the fast lane.

If I’m not sprinting toward my current dozen goals or the next dozen after that, the anxiety will snake itself in, followed by the panic attacks.

What am I doing here? I don’t know how to be a friend to this man in this critical inflection point, nor would I want to be, otherwise. Relationships elicit fear, my health condition precludes them, and they take time I don’t have. Time is for goals and my health.

I have exactly two friends, my twin brother Barry and our life-long friend Kelly. Kelly was born at the same hospital on the same day as Barry and I, and our moms were already best friends.

I allow them a percentage of time each week, mostly because they demand it. I’m the one who’s ambivalent.

They both care for me so profoundly, in their own ways. I can at least pretend to act like they’re the only family I have because they are.

Well, them and Preston and Sheila Caruthers, Kelly’s parents. They took Barry and me in our freshmen year of high school after Mom’s and Dad’s accident. Before my parents died, the Caruthers were always a second family. Assuming the role as our parents was a natural progression.

How does one even commence a relationship with someone, anyway? I’m not sure how to couch what Ryland is to me because it’s not friendship.

Mentor and mentee? Volunteer to an injured soldier?

What am I thinking volunteering for my own non-profit? I can manage it in my glass house just fine. Getting in the trenches and actually experiencing recovery from war first-hand is way deeper than I can currently offer.

I’m already up to my knees in mud so sticky, I can’t move. A front-end loader threatens to push a berm of dirt, clay, and rock into my trench. Buried alive.

Think, Kline. EXFIL strategies. What if this weren’t any sort of engagement with another person, per se, but defined as a goal or a mission? Rehabilitation and reintegration.

I can do goals. I’ll find a way to incorporate some thrilling elements, here and there, to infuse the necessary level of octane.

Yes, this will work.

0600. The fifteen minutes between nurse check-ins have either consisted of nodding off, conversing with Ryland, albeit one-sided, or formulating my mission strategy for my engagement with him.

Interaction? I still don’t really know what to call whatever this is.

Maybe Operation Ryland’s Rehab, Recovery, and Reintegration. OR4. Yes, perfect.

First things first on the OR4 agenda: singing. Music is a great primer for any mission—settles me right into game time.

Oh, a game or sport. Yes, I’ll add that element, too. The need to compete and win is indelible. A fuel accelerant. I can practically smell the engines combusting with a fiery roar. Hooyah, bitches.

Now, for a song. Honestly, my go to pump up song wouldn’t be inappropriate. Titanium by David Guetta always gets my blood flowing, though I’m the first to admit it’s the feature of Sia who cloaks me as both invincible and inexhaustible.

My hand comes to a rest on Ryland’s knee as I start to hum. This song is a total banger. I think about slipping off key, which never fails to make my insides smile mischievously.

The people who know otherwise are three: Kelly, Barry, and Sean. Not letting anyone in is my modus operandi, and keeping the enemy guessing, amongst my rawest joys.

But Ryland can’t hear me. And if he can, I’m not going to exacerbate his condition with pretending to be in desperate need of digital rendering. Is there anyone who sings without an auto tuner anymore?

Pretty sure everyone after Stevie Nicks has no more actual talent than a carpet. And the Queen can absolutely cut a rug.

Somewhere in my subconscious, my brain compels my index finger to draw musical notes on Ryland’s knee. How I’m even touching him at all is the eighth wonder of the world. I don’t initiate touch unless it’s professional, educational, or motivational in context.

Otherwise, I only reciprocate touch. Yet, here I am, fourteen hours into knowing this man and, other than my initial near-anxiety attack, I’ve been fearless.

It’s incredible, really: Touching Ryland isn’t breaking me, at all. My