Chapter 23
BLAKE
The girl can't be more than eight.
She's small, too small, too still, and there's blood everywhere. Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker, I know that, but it's turning my stomach to see her hurt.
I should be doing something. I need to be doing something.
The trauma kit. Reid made me buy the damn thing two years ago, insisted I keep it stocked. "You never know, man. You're always driving through the middle of nowhere." I thought he was being paranoid. Now I'm grateful.
I grab it from behind the seat and bring it over, setting it down next to Reid. He doesn't look up, just reaches in and grabs what he needs. Gauze, tape, a penlight. His hands are steady. His voice is calm.
"Hey, sweetheart, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you do that?"
The girl's eyelids flutter. She moans, tries to turn her head.
"No, no, keep still for me, okay? You bumped your head. We're going to take care of you."
Laine's got two fingers on the girl's wrist, counting. Her other hand is pressing gauze to the wound, applying pressure without being told. She and Reid aren't even talking, but they're moving together like they've done this a thousand times.
That's stupid. Of course they have. They're pros.
So what the fuck do I do? I hate feeling useless.
The mother.
I turn and find her sitting on the guardrail. She's staring at her daughter, hands pressed over her mouth. Shaking. There's blood on her—cuts on her hands and forearms from the broken glass when she tried to reach her kid. Not serious, but bleeding enough to look scary.
I grab more gauze from the kit and walk over to her.
"Ma'am." I crouch down so I'm at her level. She doesn't look at me—can't take her eyes off her daughter. "Ma'am, I need you to look at me."
She drags her gaze to my face. Her eyes are wild, wet. "My baby—"
"She's in good hands." I keep my voice low and calm. It's the voice I learned to use overseas when talking to scared civilians. The same voice I use with vets who see threats everywhere. "See those two? They do this every day. Your daughter is getting the best care possible right now."
She moans. "There's so much blood—"
"Head wounds bleed a lot. It looks worse than it is." I don't know if that's true. But she needs to hear it. "Can I see your hands?"
She looks down at them like she forgot they existed. The cuts aren't deep, but there's glass embedded in her hand. She hasn't even noticed.
"I'm going to clean these up while we wait for the ambulance, okay? Just focus on me."
I take her hands in mine, gentle as I can manage with fingers more used to gripping tools than people. Trying to be gentle, but hating how clumsy I feel, I pull out a piece of glass and she flinches.
"Sorry." I grab an antiseptic wipe and start cleaning the cuts. "What's your daughter's name?"
"Emma. Her name is Emma."
"That's pretty. How old is she?"
"Eight. She just turned eight last month." The woman's voice breaks. "We were going to Sunriver for her birthday. She wanted to swim in the lake, look for fish."
"Yeah? She like the water?"
"She loves it. But she won't go in past her waist until she's checked for seaweed." The mom almost laughs, then chokes on it. "She's so careful about everything."
"Smart kid." I wrap gauze around her palm, careful not to pull too tight. "My buddy's brother was the same way. Always thinking ahead. Turned out to be the bravest guy I ever knew."
The words bypass my filter completely.
My lungs seize up, the air suddenly too thin to breathe. Jared. Why the fuck did I say that? He has no business being in this conversation. He belongs in a closed box in the back of my head where I don't have to look at him.
My hands tremble. I lock my wrists, forcing them still.
But the woman's breathing is slowing down. Her shoulders drop from up around her ears. The distraction is working.
"Is she going to be okay?" she whispers.
"They're going to do everything they can."
It's not a promise. I don't make promises I can't keep. But it's enough. She nods, grips my hand for a second, then lets go.
I finish bandaging her cuts and stand up, knees popping.
Behind me, Reid's speaking. "Okay, we're going to move her now. Laine, you ready?"
"Ready."
"On three. One, two—"
I turn to watch. Reid's got the girl's head and shoulders, Laine's got her legs, and they lift her together, smooth and coordinated. They carry her away from the car, away from the drop, laying her down on the flat ground near my truck.
The car groans against the rope.
Right. The rope.
I walk to the trailer hitch and check the tension. It's holding, but the sedan has shifted since we secured it. One of the back wheels is barely touching asphalt now. If the guardrail gives, or if the car shifts again—
I wait until Reid and Laine have the girl settled. Then I unhook the rope.
The sedan shudders, settles, but stays put. For now.
I coil the rope and toss it in the truck bed. That's one less thing to worry about.
A car comes around the curve—too fast, way too fast—and I'm moving before I think about it. I step into the road, hands up, forcing the driver to slow down. They honk, swerve around me, but they slow down. That's what matters.
I stay there, positioning myself between the road and where Reid and Laine are working.
If another car comes too fast, if someone's not paying attention, they'll have to go through me first. It's not logical.
I know that. Doesn't matter how tough I think I am, I don't stand a chance against a three-thousand-pound vehicle.
But I have to keep them safe.
I tell myself it's about protecting both of them. Protecting Reid.
But my eyes keep going to Laine.
She's kneeling in gravel and broken glass, blood all over her hands, her forearms, soaking through her flannel. The morning sun catches her hair where it's falling out of her ponytail. Her face is calm, focused. She's talking to the girl—Emma—in a low, steady voice.
She's awake, thank fuck.
"You're doing great, sweetheart. Just keep looking at me. Can you tell me what day it is? Do you know what day it is?"
The girl mumbles something. Laine nods, strokes her hair back from her face.
"That's right. Good girl. You're so brave."
I've seen a lot of people under pressure. In combat, in crisis. You learn fast who's going to freeze and who's going to move. Who's going to panic and who's going to think.
Laine doesn't freeze. Doesn't panic. This is a regular Saturday to her.
I thought I was fucked before. I was wrong. I'm royally fucked. Epically fucked. The most fucked of any man ever.
Because I'm not just attracted to her anymore. It's not just that she's beautiful—though she is, even now, even covered in blood. It's not just that she fits into Reid's life like she was made for it.
It's that she's good. The real kind of good. The kind that shows up when everything goes sideways.
I watched her laugh at Reid's terrible jokes on the drive up and dig through that bag of gas station garbage and eat circus peanuts without complaining. She handled my grumpy ass without flinching, and gave it right back to me when I deserved it.
And now I'm watching her save a little girl's life on the side of a mountain road, calm as anything, like this is just what she does.
This is what Reid deserves. Someone who can stand next to him in the fire. Someone who doesn't flinch. They're fucking perfect together.
I tear my eyes away. Focus on the road. Another car is coming—slower this time, the driver rubbernecking. Fucking assholes, wanting a look at someone else's tragedy.
The ambulance arrives about fifteen minutes later.
Feels like hours.
The Paramedics take over, loading the little girl onto a stretcher. The mother is crying, thanking Reid and Laine over and over. Reid walks with them toward the ambulance, giving them the rundown.
And then it's just me and Laine.
She's standing by the guardrail, looking down at her hands.
They're covered in blood—drying now, dark and tacky.
It's in the creases of her palms, under her fingernails, up to her wrists.
Her flannel is ruined, soaked through in patches that are turning rust-brown as they dry.
It's not her blood, I know that, but it fucking kills me to look at it.
She looks calm.
I go to the truck. Grab the pack of wet wipes from the center console and my spare jacket from behind the seat—the old canvas work jacket I keep for cold installs.
When I walk back to her, she's still staring at her hands.
"Here." I hold out the wipes.
She looks up. Takes them. "Thanks."
She pulls one out and starts working on her hands. Methodical, patient. The blood isn't coming off easy—it's had time to dry, to settle into the cracks of her skin. She scrubs at her knuckles, between her fingers, under her nails.
The mountain air is cold. Not see your breath cold, it is summer, but her flannel is wet with blood, which means it's not holding any heat. She's got to be freezing.
She hasn't said a word about it.
I step closer and drape the jacket over her shoulders.
Laine goes still. Looks up at me.
"You're cold," I say. I want her warm, yeah, but I want her in something that's mine. For just a little while, I can pretend that she—
I can't let myself go down that mindfuck of a road.
I'll never find my way back.
"I'm fine," she says, her bottom lip quivering.
"You're shivering."
She looks down at herself, like she hadn't noticed. Then she pulls the jacket tighter around her, arms sliding into the sleeves. It's way too big on her, the cuffs hanging past her fingers, the shoulders drooping.
I love the way she looks in my clothes.
You fucking piece of shit.
"Thanks," she says. She goes back to cleaning her hands.
We stand there for a minute. The ambulance lights flash red and blue against the trees. I can hear Reid's voice somewhere behind us, reassuring the mother.
"Head wounds are tricky," Laine says quietly. She's watching the ambulance, watching them load Emma in. "She was responsive, which is good. Pupils were equal, that's good too. But with kids, you never know. The damage might not show up for hours."
I don't say anything. I don't know what to say. She knows more about this than I ever will.
I'm not a praying man. God gave up on me a long time ago. But I sure as fuck hope he exists and he's watching out for that little girl.
She balls up the used wipe, pulls out another one. Keeps scrubbing.
"Did you ever see him work like this?" she asks. "Reid. When you were overseas."
Have I ever seen Reid like this? Yes. And no. "Once. Our medic went down. Reid's unit got called in to help."
"Was he good?"
I watch the ambulance, but I'm not really seeing it. I'm seeing a dusty road outside Kandahar, Reid kneeling in the dirt with blood up to his elbows, while I stood over him with a rifle.
"He was solid," I say. "Steady hands. Kept his cool." I pause. "But he's better now. More confident. Back then, he was still..."
The little brother. Still following.
I don't finish the sentence.
Laine nods, like she understands what I'm not saying. "He's incredible. You should see him with patients. He's got a way with them."
"Yeah." My voice is flat. "He's a good guy."
"He is." She looks at me then, direct and clear. "So are you."
I don't know what to do with that. It's nice to hear, so nice, I don't want to tell her how wrong she is.
"You kept that mother calm," she continues. "I saw you with her. Cleaning her up, talking her down. That's not easy, finding the right words."
"Just kept her busy."
"That's not nothing, Blake." She holds my gaze. "She was about to fall apart, and you gave her something to hold onto. That matters."
I want to look away. I can't.
She sees me.
The thought hits like a punch to the gut. She was working on a bleeding kid, fighting to keep her stable, and she still noticed what I was doing. She still saw me.
No one sees me. I make sure of it.
But Laine Mitchell looked up from saving a little girl's life and saw me anyway.
"Reid's lucky," I say. I don't know why I say it. The words just come out.
Laine's expression softens. "I'm the lucky one."
No. He's the lucky one. He found someone who runs toward the fire instead of away from it. Someone who sees the quiet things, the invisible things. Someone who—
I shut that fucking thought down hard.
Reid jogs back over, slightly out of breath. "She's stable. They're taking her to St. Charles in Bend. Mom's riding in the ambulance."
He looks at Laine—at the blood on her clothes, at my jacket swallowing her up—and something flickers across his face. But it's gone fast, replaced by that easy Reid grin.
"You okay, babe?" He wraps an arm around her.
"I'm good." She leans into him. "Just need a shower and a change of clothes."
"We can stop somewhere. Find a store."
"No." She shakes her head. "We're already behind. I'll survive."
Reid looks at me over her head. "We good to roll?"
"Yeah." I'm already walking back to the truck. "Sunriver's another forty minutes. We're behind schedule." Way to be an asshole. I hate that it's my default, but it's been that way for so long, I don't know how to be any different.
I check the hitch, the trailer, the tie-downs. Everything's secure. The sedan is still sitting against the guardrail, waiting for a tow truck. Not my problem anymore.
I climb behind the wheel. Adjust the mirrors.
Reid helps Laine into the passenger seat, then climbs in the back. She's still wearing my jacket. It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.
I put the truck in gear.
"Everyone good?" I ask.
"Good," Reid says.
"Good," Laine echoes.
I pull back onto the highway. The road stretches ahead, winding through the mountains toward Sunriver. I drive carefully—more carefully than before. Checking mirrors, watching the curves, keeping the speed steady.
I've got cargo that matters.
And I've got forty minutes to get my head on straight before we have to unload a three-hundred-pound slab of walnut and pretend I'm not losing my mind.