Caught In The Crosshairs. Elisabeth Rees
allowing it to fall loosely around her face. She put her head in her hands. He grew concerned.
“Sergeant Hanson, stay focused. I need to ditch this vehicle and acquire another. While I look for something suitable, why don’t you lead us in prayer for Sergeant Hicks? He was a good soldier and a brave man. Let’s honor him and the sacrifice he made for us today.”
Cara lifted her head and gave him a weak smile. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together. She managed to say a few words before she slumped sideways on her seat and his heart leaped into his mouth.
He willed the jeep to go faster, in a race against time to reach a place of safety where he could tend to her wounds, whatever they may be. He knew she must be in a serious condition to succumb to total defenselessness. She was too proud and strong to let her guard down so easily. He allowed his protective instincts to come to the fore, having decided that he would do everything in his power to steer her away from danger. He suspected that she might rail against his authority, but he was adamant that she would not come to harm—not now, not ever.
Cara tried to open her eyes but they were gritty and sore. She struggled to sit up as the room spun around her. Her vision was blurred, and her head swam with memories of running wildly through branches, feeling fiery heat on her back. She could see a small window with white drapes, drawn tight against the low-lying sun. She looked down at herself. She was wearing the Lycra pants and tee that she always wore underneath her ghillie suit. But who undressed her? She was lying on a large wooden bed with blankets, next to a pine dresser on which her rifle rested, neatly in pieces as if someone had been cleaning it.
She sat bolt upright. Captain McGovern! Had she failed him? She scrambled out of bed and promptly fell, with a thud, to the floor. The door flung open and someone rushed in, picking her up and sitting her back on the bed.
“Careful, Sergeant, you’re not strong enough to be on your feet yet.”
She focused her eyes on the face before her. Yes, it was Captain McGovern and he was safe.
“What happened?” she croaked.
“You went into anaphylactic shock,” he said, pulling her legs up onto the bed and laying her back on the pillows. “You came into contact with poison ivy while in the woods. You suffered a severe reaction to it, I’m afraid. We almost lost you.”
“Where...?” Her breathing was short and shallow. “Where are we?”
“We’re in a cabin in Wyoming,” he said. “It’s my secret hideaway. No one knows about this place but me.” He smiled at her. “And now you, of course.”
She realized that this was the first time she’d seen him smile. His teeth were perfectly aligned, gleaming white against the olive hue of his skin. She saw a new gentleness in his face, and the memory of his firm, strong arms cradling her sweat-drenched body flashed into her mind. She hated being weak and out of control. But at least she didn’t mess up. Not this time. She was grateful for that.
She lay back on the pillows. “How long have I been out?”
“About twelve hours. Luckily, I keep a well-stocked medicine box here in the cabin. We managed to get you here in time and administer adrenaline and antihistamines.”
She raised her hand to her head and touched it gingerly. Everything felt puffy and swollen. Dean’s face appeared over her, concern etched into the lines and furrows. He put his hand underneath her neck and raised her head up, bringing a cool drink of water to her lips. She sipped it gratefully, allowing the coldness of the liquid to soothe her tight throat.
He gently placed her head back on the pillow. “You should have disclosed your allergy to poison ivy when you enlisted,” he said, unscrewing the top from a bottle of calamine lotion. “You must tell your superiors everything that might affect your ability to carry out a mission.”
She closed her eyes. How could she tell him that she didn’t want to divulge any frailty to the army? That she thought even a simple allergy was something she must hide from her commanding officers, along with any other imperfections in her past. She wanted him to have complete faith in her.
“I always carry an EpiPen,” she said. “But I guess it wasn’t enough to stop the attack from progressing. I know I should’ve told you about my allergy, but I’m normally very careful around poison ivy. I haven’t had a reaction like this in over ten years.”
She remembered being fourteen years old, straining to breathe, as her father carried her to the car to rush her to the hospital.
“It’s lucky I found your EpiPen on the seat beside you,” he said. “Is there anything else I should know about you? Any other allergies or weaknesses?”
He dabbed the lotion onto the blisters on her forehead. She realized that she must be puffed up like a balloon, and she didn’t want him to see her this way.
“No, sir.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
His gaze rested on hers as he attended to her wounds. He seemed to be searching her eyes for the truth. Could he see through the facade to the ugly reality that she had watched her father die before her very eyes? And that it was her fault. It was her greatest weakness, one that would stay with her for the rest of her life.
She remained silent as he soothed her soreness and washed up in the small sink in the corner.
“Where is Gomez?” she asked, thankful to change the subject.
“Gomez is here with us. We’ve conducted a debriefing session, trying to figure out what happened out there yesterday, but you may be able to shed more light on things. We just needed to get you strong again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let’s cut the formalities, shall we, Hanson? Call me Dean.”
“Yes, sir.”
She managed to laugh as weariness overcame her, and she couldn’t fight the sleep that closed her swollen eyelids yet again. She watched Dean’s face fade to a blur while she drifted into slumber, and she prayed that his life would not be in danger because of her weakness. As a sniper, she had guarded many lives, but no mission had ever made her feel this protective. She didn’t know why, but she somehow felt connected with Dean, and she needed to recover so she could take her place by his side.
* * *
Dean stayed a little while as Cara slept, wanting to be sure that her breathing was steady and strong. She looked small and vulnerable, lying under the heavy woolen blankets. Looking at her face made him think of his mom, her eyes puffy and red after crying through the night. He pulled up the corner of the blanket and laid it over Cara’s exposed shoulder, making sure she was warm and comfortable underneath. Even with her swollen features and crisscross scratches on her cheeks, she was still beautiful, and he didn’t want to tear his gaze away from her.
He couldn’t shake the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling him. He knew that look in her eyes. He’d seen it too many times before. It was a haunted look that lingered behind the eyes of many soldiers in Special Forces—a look that said a thousand things about war and death.
As he watched her sleep, he wondered what she had seen to give her that same look. He thought he knew about all her combat experience from reading her dossier. Unless, he wondered. This wasn’t something she’d seen in war.
* * *
Cara splashed cold water on her face from the white sink in the corner of her room. She was drained of energy, and she gripped the edge of the basin tightly to hold herself up. The sound of male voices drifted through the thin walls. Dean’s voice was instantly recognizable, low and rumbling. She shivered. She was cold. And she was hungry. She pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her body, tucking it under her