Chapter 68 Mallory Plantation—Rick
Mallory Plantation—Rick
Rick woke to a world drowned in white—ceiling, walls, sheets. Everything gleamed under a soft fluorescent glare that burned through his eyelids and made his eyes sting.
The air carried that sterile, too-clean antiseptic smell. Machines whispered and clicked in a quiet pattern beside him. Thin lines trailed from both arms to IV poles, clear liquid winding down like something alive.
His dry throat scraped when he swallowed. Every shallow breath had a metallic tang. Where the hell am I?
Landstuhl? Walter Reed? The question floated—half memory, half dream—while his mind struggled to climb through fog. If it were at Walter Reed, Pops would be here. Probably sitting in some corner chair, pretending not to worry, hiding behind a newspaper he didn’t really read.
Rick pressed the thought away. Thinking of his mom hurt too much. He closed his eyes, let the hum of machinery lull him, and sank under again.
The next time he surfaced, it was to hunger—biting and hollow beneath the sore ribs. He tried to shift, but pain caught him square in the side—a hot, tearing pull that made his breath hitch. The monitor beside him screamed in frantic beeps, sharp and insistent.
“Christ—” He swallowed the curse as sparks shot down his chest.
“Take it easy, Marine.”
The voice—calm, familiar—anchored him. He turned his head slightly, every vertebra protesting. The motion forced a groan out of him before he could stop it.
The baby doc stood at his bedside, calm as glass and just as cool, the shadows under her eyes softened by compassion. Her gaze lingered on him with something gentler—recognition, maybe even affection.
His lips cracked into what passed for a grin, but it only tightened the bruising around his jaw. “What are you doing in Maryland?”
She smiled as she adjusted the monitor. “I work in Maryland,” she said. “But that’s not where you are.”
Rick frowned. The muscles in his temples twitched with effort. “Didn’t I come from Ramstein?”
“Not this time.” The corner of her mouth tipped upward, almost teasing.
He grunted as his ribs complained again. “Feel like I got T-boned by a Humvee.”
“You, Tavis, and Clay got into a fight.” Isabella’s smile deepened a little. “1927 Chicago. Remember?”
Rick blinked—twice, slow. The fog in his mind thinned for a heartbeat, and behind it, memory flickered—fists, knives, brass knuckles, blood. “Where are Tav and Clay?”
She pointed over her shoulder. “Right there. Both out cold. Like you should be.”
Relief loosened the tightness in his chest. “They gonna be all right?”
“All three of you will make full recoveries,” she said. “Trainer Ted’s already planning your rehab.”
Rick huffed, half a laugh, half a groan. “That guy’s idea of rehab is medieval torture. Oorah.” He shifted, winced. “So… where’s my bride?”
“She left about twenty minutes ago to check on the twins,” Isabella said. “She’ll be back once they’re settled.”
A genuine smile—small, crooked, but real—tugged at his mouth. Relief bled into the ache in his chest. “Can I text her?”
“Nope.”
“Harsh,” he said, letting his head sink back into the pillow. The movement pulled at every muscle between his shoulder blades, but he didn’t care. “Thanks for patching me up. Can I have another sucker?”
“Sure thing, Marine.” She reached into her coat pocket and rattled through the candy stash. “Pick your poison.”
“Lemon.” She unwrapped one and placed it in his hand. He gave her a shaky grin before popping it into his mouth. “You’re the best baby doc I’ve ever had.”
“I’m a Med-Ped,” she corrected with mock exasperation. “Adults and kids. So, lucky you—you’re stuck with me.”
Something smooth brushed his fingers beneath the blanket. “My rosary,” he said. “Would you hand it to me?”
Isabella reached gently, searching under the covers until she found it and pressed it into his hand. “Try not to throw it at me this time.”
He managed a husky chuckle that tugged every sore inch of him. “I did that?”
“You tried. Penny stopped you.”
He turned the beads in his palm, thumb tracing the worn edges that had polished under his mother’s fingertips a lifetime ago. The contact steadied him, slow and sure. “Luckiest Jarhead alive,” he whispered.
Her curiosity softened in the moment. “Why only ten beads? My grandmother’s rosary had more.”
“It’s a single-decade distance rosary,” he said. “Easy to carry when you’re living out of your pockets. It was my mom’s. She said it was for quick prayers.”
Isabella’s expression gentled. “I wish I’d met her.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Me too. Wish Mom were still around to meet you.” He closed his eyes. The tension finally started bleeding away, replaced by that bone-deep exhaustion unique to survival.
The lemon sweetness melted across his tongue—bright, nostalgic.
For a second, he wasn’t in Charlotte’s surgery at all.
He was ten years old again—kitchen light spilling across homework on the table, Mom humming over the stove, smell of fried chicken filling the air, baseball game playing on the TV, Pops laughing in another room.
His breathing steadied, chest rising and falling under the tangled blanket. The rosary beads rested against his sternum, the familiar weight of faith and memory grounding him against the pain.
He let his still-aching fingers curl around them, thumb tracing the cross until the movement slowed, then stopped altogether. The last thing he registered before sleep took him again was the lemon-sugar taste on his tongue and the quiet beeping of machines.