The Medic's Homecoming. Lynne Marshall
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Jocelyn deserved to know how she wasted her adoration. He was broken and finally admitted it to her out loud.
Maybe saying it aloud—I have PTSD—would help make the condition go away.
If only it were that easy.
“You sure you want me to help with that fundraiser? A balloon may pop and I might freak out on you or something.”
From nowhere her cool hands caressed his cheeks. Jocelyn went up on her toes to buss his lips, catching him by surprise.
“Yes,” she said, gazing into his face. “I still want you to help me with the fundraiser.” There was a playful glint in her coffee-bean-colored eyes. “I also hope you’ll reconsider about re-enlisting.” With her hands still framing his face, her lashes fluttered downward then back up.
Their gazes met and held in an I-refuse-to-be-the-first-to-look-away contest. He could hear her breathe, and there was that sweet flower bloom and vanilla shampoo scent again …
About the Author
LYNNE MARSHALL used to worry that she had a serious problem with daydreaming—then she discovered she was supposed to write those stories! A late bloomer, Lynne came to fiction writing after her children were nearly grown. Now she battles the empty nest by writing stories that always include a romance, sometimes medicine, a dose of mirth, or both, but always stories from her heart. She is a Southern California native, a dog lover, a cat admirer, a power walker and avid reader.
The Medic’s
Homecoming
Lynne Marshall
This book is dedicated to the men and women who must deal with PTSD every day.
Also, special thanks to my son, JP, for loaning me his tattoos for this book. Love you.
Chapter One
Lucas couldn’t sleep. What else was new? He thought maybe things would be different once he got home, but no.
He threw back the covers and slid into the leather flip-flops he’d picked up at the base PX, then headed out back to the garage and his 1965 Mustang. The classic car he’d saved up for with part-time jobs—bought long before he was old enough to drive and mostly rebuilt before he’d left home at eighteen—seemed to call out to him.
As the cool night wind pushed him along, he glanced next door, finding a light on in the upstairs bedroom. The same room he’d tossed pebbles at the night before he left for boot camp. Jocelyn hadn’t opened the window then, so he’d never gotten to say goodbye. Damn, had that been ten years ago?
He flipped on the light at the garage side entrance, but nothing happened. Fumbling around in the dark he bumped into his car and reached above, swinging his hand back and forth until he found the dangling chain then yanked. A single bulb dimly lit the garage. Rolling back the thick plastic car-cover, he took a deep inhale. Grease and oil perked up his senses. This was home. The garage and the peace it had always offered. His classic car.
How could his father call him a slacker when he’d never worked harder on anything in his life?
Glancing around the countertops, he found a rag and walked the perimeter of the Mustang, wiping away the dust on the chipped and flaking paint, the smoother areas covered in sprayed-on primer. He took his time, reacquainting himself with the sleek body and chrome.
He’d flown into LAX from North Carolina earlier that evening, greeted by his sister, Anne, and her boyfriend, Jack. They delivered him home to the Grady idea of a hero’s welcome—Mom’s famous yellow cake with buttercream chocolate frosting. Still one of the best desserts he’d ever had.
Lucas looked at the beat-up Harley in the corner of the garage. Though in their mid-fifties, Mom and Dad still enjoyed their weekend rides. Well, they used to, anyway—before the accident.
It had been a little shocking to find his father in a wheelchair, his right leg and opposite arm in casts. Still an imposing figure at six feet four inches—though you couldn’t tell in that wheelchair—Kieran Grady hadn’t changed much. His sandy blond hair had been invaded by silver, mostly around the temples, and he looked craggier than Lucas remembered. Probably from all the years of coaching in the California sun catching up with him. His steel-blue stare, though, was unchanged, and he’d used those inquiring eyes to thoroughly check out Lucas tonight. Did Dad have a clue what Lucas had been through in the desert?
No one could, unless they’d witnessed it themselves.
Mom, other than going the bottle-brown route with her hair, had looked basically the same. She wore her signature casual jeans, though now they’d been traded in for designer jeans with shiny studs along the pockets and stitched flowers at the flared legs. Still preferring flashy patterned tops, her bright pink cast competed with the loud colors. Her welcoming smile and the tears welling in her eyes told him all he needed to know—she was happy to have him home, no matter the circumstances.
As Lucas thought about that night, the tugging in his chest let him know it was good to see his parents again. Both of them.
While he tinkered with the car, Lucas geared up for the next couple of weeks being his father’s medical attendant. It would be tough but a damn sight easier than performing medic duties in the desert.
He stood back and stared at his Mustang, then scanned the family garage, littered with boxes stored in the rafters. So many memories.
Was it good to be home?
“Hey,” his sister Anne said from the door.
He controlled his surprise, trained his eyes on her and kept rubbing the car. “I can’t believe Dad kept this around.”
“I think he knew you’d come after him if he ever tried to sell it.”
Man, the tension between him and his dad had made the welcome-home yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting go down like cardboard. Would Dad ever forgive him for enlisting? It was Dad’s dream to send him to college, just like Anne and Lark, but Lucas hadn’t wanted to go to college. He wasn’t one for hitting the books like his sisters. No, he preferred the basics: getting his hands dirty and fixing things. Come to think of it, being a medic in the field had a lot to do with fixing things, like gaping body injuries, burned skin and gunshot wounds. Books and papers, well, he didn’t have the patience for that stuff.
When he’d tested out for medic over engineer on the military aptitude battery, he’d almost demanded a retest. That was Anne’s dream, to be a doctor—though she’d become a nurse—and these days baby sister Lark was the one back east in medical school.
“What are you doing up?” she asked.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Too much excitement?”
His smile felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
The worst part of his post-traumatic stress disorder was dealing with insomnia. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than a couple hours. When he did manage to fall asleep, he’d wake with a start, heart pounding up his throat, every muscle tensed, prepared to fight for his life. Or his sleep would be restless with fits and jerks like he was still fighting the war. He’d wake up more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed.
What he’d give for one good night’s sleep.…
Because he was exhausted most of the time, he snapped at people, which wouldn’t go over well with his dad. Only his buddies in the field understood. How would he adjust to being back to civilian life, where no