Me, lucky? Them, dead? Does. Not. Compute.
“But the… the donkey.” Jameson had no idea why he asked. Nothing made sense. Not this impenetrable darkness. Not the sucking black hole in his chest that had nothing to do with daisy chains or IEDs or A-10s or his eyes or—
“You saved those two kids. That damned donkey, too. That’s what’s important. Focus on the good you did. I called your parents. They’ll be here tonight.”
“My mom?” he asked like an idiot.
“And your dad. They took the first flight out of Virginia this morning. Hang tight. They’re on their way. They’ll be here as soon as they can, and I’m not going anywhere. You need something, you tell me, understand? I’m not leaving until they ship you out.”
“But Eeyore,” Jameson murmured to himself, the life inside of him somehow so much less than it had been only minutes ago. So much darker. Uncomfortably foreign feeling. As if one of those slimy creatures from the movie “Aliens” had crawled into his body and poured acid over everything he’d ever been. Ever wanted to be. A SEAL. A brother. As if all he’d given his heart and soul to, was simply—gone.
Boyington didn’t respond. No yay or nay or anything. And Jameson was listening, as hard as he’d ever listened in his life. His life—before.
Something was running down his face. It had better be blood. Not tears. Because he refused to give up or give in. So what if he couldn’t see? So what if he’d never see Christmas lights again? So what if there would never be shadows, or sunsets, or first glances, or depth perception, or pretty blondes or redheads or—son of a fuckin’ bitch! Only inky black darkness that, right then, was suffocating the living shit out of him!
Good God! How could this have happened? To him! With just one explosion—or explosions—he’d gone from being at the top of his game and his team—his SEAL team!—to being nothing. No one. The Navy didn’t need blind SEALs. He’d be out-processed on a fuckin’ medical. He’d be a has-been. A wannabe.
But if Boyington was right… If he really was blind… Shit!
This wasn’t luck. This was another damned war, and Jameson was in the fight of his life. Because nothing—do you hear me world?—nothing, kept Jameson Tenney down!
Chapter One
Alex Stewart didn’t dare breathe. Couldn’t.
It was an early morning in August, and it had been a damned long night. He was remembering how smoothly his second daughter’s birth had gone. They’d gotten to the hospital in plenty of time, and Kelsey’s labor had amounted to less than an hour, give or take a few excruciating minutes. Lexie hadn’t been able to wait to meet her mom.
But the baby boy in Doc Fitz’s very capable hands now, had struggled all night and every inch of his way into the world. He was struggling still. Despite the best gynecologist in the business and Doc Fitz’s excellent pediatric skills, Bradley Patrick Stewart had arrived blue and in obvious distress. Which was the reason his mother had undergone an emergency cesarean the moment his stats bottomed out.
The little boy was just too big, his mother too small. He’d clawed his way through the birth canal, and had almost made it when, suddenly, just as his big head peaked, he’d stopped breathing.
So had Alex. Life really did stand still sometimes. Hearts quit beating, too. He didn’t dare speak. Didn’t know what to say, or who to say it to. Certainly didn’t want Kelsey to overhear any question that might make her panic or jump to conclusions.
Breathe, he silently commanded his first son. Want to live, Bradley. Dare to beat the odds, son. You’ve already fought for the privilege, now stay, damn it. Stay with us. Don’t break your mom’s heart. She needs you, and God, so do I.
Tears brimmed Alex’s eyes, blurring Doc Fitz’s hellbent, yet urgent actions as she cleared the little guy’s airway, suctioning away whatever he’d breathed in at the last moment. She’d given Alex a quick second to cut the umbilical cord, before another nurse had attached a belt around Bradley’s skinny, unresponsive chest to monitor his stats, or lack of them. After suctioning his airways, Doc Fitz set the nasal bulb aside and held a small oxygen mask to the baby’s bluish face.
Lexie had been born screaming, red-faced, and mad as hell. But Bradley was quiet. Too damned quiet.
God, don’t do this to your mom!
“Alex, what’s wrong?” that weary mom asked tiredly from the birthing bed where her obstetrician was stitching her tummy. “Why isn’t he crying? Lexie did. Is Bradley okay?”
Alex looked at Doc Fitz from beneath his lashes, daring her to break the news, and in doing so, break Kelsey’s heart. Are you going to tell her, or does that dastardly deed fall to me? he wondered, his heart stuck in his throat and pounding too hard. Maybe too loud.
“Alex?”
He hated the tremor in his sweet wife’s voice, nearly as much as he hated himself. He’d failed her. If this little boy had come all this way only to die, what kind of man did that make his father? Standing idly by, twiddling his thumbs, not able to do a damned thing to save his son?
“There we go. Upsie daisy. You can do it, little one. I know you can,” Doc Fitz soothed calmly, her competent fingers moving surely over Bradley’s ribs, the other cupping his head as she lifted him, and—
“Ba-ba-bah!” He cried! His flat chest sucked in and his skinny arms flailed, and he sucked in another big gulp of life. And by hell! He was going to make it!
Tears filled Alex’s eyes. His chin hit his chest in utmost humility. God, thank you. Only then could he face Kelsey and tell her with confidence, “Bradley wants his mom.”
She was tired, but still so damned beautiful, his heart hurt to look at her. Her tender smile told him she knew him too
