He wasn’t sure how she got on the naval base, but he opened his eyes one night and she was there, sitting on the edge of his bed. He could hear the sounds around him, so he knew he was awake—there was snuffling in beds, moaning, humming, snoring.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, panicked, immediately afraid she was going to be in deep trouble. Maybe arrested.

She reached out a hand and ran her pretty fingers over his temple, down his cheek, softly over his lips. “I thought maybe you needed me, Ricky. And I knew I needed you.” Then she leaned over him and touched his lips with hers. He inhaled sharply, smelling her scent, tasting her special taste. His girl. Not a girl, a woman, and she never let him forget she belonged to him and he belonged to her. He’d had some dates, some making out with girls before Lizzie, but she was the whole deal for him. They might have started out a couple of clumsy, stupid kids, but by now they knew each other’s bodies and needs and their sex was rich and powerful and satisfying.

She fed him sweet kisses and he swallowed her little moans. “Shh,” he said to her. “We’re going to get in so much trouble.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I pulled the curtain.”

He glanced and saw that they were as alone as they could be in a barracks, the privacy panels separating his bed from his neighbors. And the sounds of sleep and dreams were all around him. He went after her mouth again. Her perfect, soft, round mouth, her full lips. He ran a hand down her side to her hip and over. She was wearing that tiny denim skirt. Ohhh, that little skirt. He slid his hand under and she was bare. He let his fingers explore while she kissed him; his baby, she was wet and ready. This wasn’t a good idea, he thought. Not here. But he was ready, too.

“Come here, baby,” he said, lying her down next to him. And she answered with that soft little moan he knew so well. “Come here, I need you. I need you so bad right now.” It was crowded in his little bed, but he rose onto his side, looking down at her. His Liz, his beautiful, sweet, loyal Liz. He slipped one hand under her shirt to capture a breast, the other went under her skirt to probe her a little. He had to cover her mouth with his to silence her moans. But then he pushed up her shirt and pulled her pretty nipple into his mouth and he didn’t care if she moaned. He was in heaven.

Sometimes this was all it took; Liz had always been so hot. He’d run his tongue around her nipple, suck a little, stroke her between her legs and she’d plunge right into an orgasm. “Don’t wait for me,” he whispered into her mouth. He licked, sucked, stroked and she came apart, hot and wet, gasping. He heard himself laugh softly. Then he positioned himself over her, mounted her, rising above her, finding and entering her. God, she felt so good he thought he was going to die.

He pumped and drove into her and heard her hum. “Don’t forget,” she whispered. And his hand snaked down between their tight bodies to find that clitoris again, rubbing it. He knew his woman; this was what she wanted.

“If we don’t get caught, I’m going to put my face in you and stay there an hour,” he promised her. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

“Please,” she said softly. “Please please please please…”

And he erupted. Went off like a rocket, pulsing and coming until there was nothing left inside him. His eyes were pinched tight, he was bathed in sweat, and for a second he wondered how she’d gotten him on his back. And then he opened his eyes and realized he was alone.

She’d only been there in his mind, in his dream. But God, what a dream. It was so real, so perfect, exactly as he remembered.

He panted for a while, catching his breath. He looked and there had been no privacy screen. But it seemed everyone was asleep; no one was sitting up looking at him. He had a momentary hope he hadn’t been talking in his sleep, but a glance around told him it had all happened in his head, under his sheet.

And then he realized that in his dream, he’d held himself over her with two complete, undamaged legs, kneeling between her legs. He gasped at the memory, so vivid. Soundless, hot tears rolled from his eyes across his temples. Oh, Liz… Oh, baby….

Mel and Jack struggled to get their family back to normal. Jack had been home for two weeks. He had talked with Rick, but he wasn’t getting very far with him. Rick would take his calls if he was near the cell phone, but he neither initiated nor returned them. “This might require more patience than you have,” Mel said. “He isn’t headed for a quick fix. It’s going to take months. Maybe years.”

“Months,” Jack mimicked, disappointment drawing out the word. And then, “Years?”

“Jack, even if he weren’t wounded, catastrophically wounded at that, his return from a war zone would be a serious adjustment. Every family of every soldier goes through this. And you know that.”

But while Jack knew it, he didn’t really know it from experience. He’d always been active duty and had only visited his family. He moved on to the next challenge and if anyone thought he’d gotten depressed or crazy, they didn’t mention it. Certainly Jack knew he was adjusting after a combat assignment, he just didn’t think anyone else knew. And of course he’d never sustained an injury that would retire or discharge him.

Although Rick was on Mel’s mind every bit as much, she had other people to care for. She had called Liz regularly and talked with her in person when Liz came to town to help her aunt Connie in the corner store. She convinced her to visit that counselor who helped her after her baby had been stillborn, a definite step forward. A couple of women from town were prenatals and she did all she could to assist Cameron in the clinic with other patients.

At the end of March spring teased the mountains—one day pleasantly warm and a few days later, an icy rain, a threat of snow. Mel was seeing a prenatal patient one afternoon when she heard a commotion in the front of the clinic. Fortunately she wasn’t doing internal exams; she stepped out of the room to see a breathless, skinny man who looked to be in his sixties in a panic as he yelled at Cameron, waving his arms excitedly.

“She’s dyin’, I know it! You gotta come! She’s dyin’!”

Cameron looked over his shoulder. “Mel?”

She stepped forward. “Where are we going, sir?” she asked calmly.

“A couple blocks. Hurry!”

“Let me excuse my patient, Cam. Fire up the Hummer, get the gentleman in it and I’ll be right there.”

So while Cameron and the man got into the Hummer, she told her patient she had an emergency and would call her to complete the exam another time. They didn’t bother locking up for something like this; the drug cabinet and patient records were already locked. Because Mel had appointments, the children were with their aunt Brie for the afternoon, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to hurry along with Cameron until Jack or someone could come for them.

Cameron followed the man’s directions two blocks to a house that Mel recognized at once. She’d been here before, months and months ago, when she fetched thirty-two-year-old Cheryl Creighton from her alcoholic stupor and carted her off to a county-funded treatment facility. She had never seen Cheryl’s father, who this must be. But she would never forget Cheryl’s mother—she was a morbidly obese chain-smoker who wheezed with every laboring step she took. One look at her and Mel had worried about the woman’s heart. If it hadn’t been for the fact that since she first laid eyes on Mrs. Creighton they’d had a major forest fire and lost their town doctor, Mel would have had a pang of guilt for not checking on her, even though she was not a patient.

“What’s your wife’s name, Mr. Creighton?” Mel asked as they pulled up to the house.

“Dahlia,” he answered. “Dahlia Marie. She can’t breathe and she’s grippin’ at her chest.”

Cameron threw the Hummer into park and, grabbing his bag, ran up the steps, across the broken-down porch and through the front door, Mel close on his heels with her own bag. “She’ll be in the kitchen,” Mel said.

The familiar squalor greeted them; the little house hadn’t been cleaned in forever and smelled like an ashtray. As Mr. Creighton hurried behind them, she was aware of his wheezing.

As Mel had predicted, Dahlia was slumped back in her favorite kitchen chair, the mess of paperbacks, magazines, newspapers, Coke cans, ashtrays and miscellaneous food items like cookies and chips all within reaching distance. Her eyes were round and fearful, her lips turning blue while her pallid skin glistened with sweat. She had trouble breathing. “Let’s see if we can help, Dahlia,” she said.

Cameron had the stethoscope in his ears and pressed against her chest. He listened for only a second before reaching in his bag and giving her an aspirin. “Can you swallow this for me, Dahlia?” he asked. While she did so, he reached for the new blood-pressure cuff that fit around her wrist, tightened it and took an electronic reading. He lifted that hand against her breast, nearer her heart, for accuracy.

Mel was locating the emergency drugs she kept ready in her bag—atropine, epinephrine.

“Mel, can you manage the oxygen canister?”

“Of course,” she said, darting out of the house. By the time she got back, Cameron was slipping a nitro tablet under Dahlia’s tongue. She pulled out the tubing and fit the cannulas into the woman’s nose. “This will help,” she said.

“We need a transport,” Cameron said.

“We can do that,” Mel said. “Give me one second.” She saw the old-fashioned wall phone beside the refrigerator and picked it up, dialing with the rotary dial. “Preacher, hey. Cameron and I are at the Creighton house and have to take Mrs. Creighton to the hospital right now. Yes, that’s exactly what I need—both of you. Thanks.” She hung up and told Cameron, “Jack and Preacher will be right here to help.”

Cameron looked at her, smiled slightly and lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ll go get the gurney and bring it in.”

“Let me—”

“No. You handle this and start an IV. I won’t be a minute.”

By the time Mel had the gurney out of the back of the Hummer, Jack and Preacher were jogging up the block toward the house. She didn’t wait for them, but began to push the gurney toward the house, over the cracked and broken walk. When she reached the porch, the men were beside her, lifting the gurney up onto the slanted porch, avoiding the missing boards. “What is it?” Jack asked softly.

“Possible coronary,” she said just as quietly. “She needs to go to the hospital.”

“Want me to drive so you can ride in the back with Cameron?”

She grinned at him suddenly. “You boys come in so handy. Thanks.”

Jack and Preacher got the gurney as far as the kitchen doorway and lowered it like professional paramedics. Then they went into the kitchen and stood one on each side of her. “Afternoon, Dahlia,” Jack said. “Let’s take a ride. How about that?”

Cameron lifted the portable oxygen canister and IV bag, hanging on to them.

Dahlia Creighton got a very frightened look on her face and Jack said, “Dahlia, this will be easier if you just let me and Preacher do the work, okay? We’re going to lift you onto the gurney and wheel you out, easy as pie. But if you struggle or wiggle around, we could drop you, so be still and trust us. We’ll be rolling you into the Hummer in seconds. How about that, huh?”

She nodded, but she hadn’t said a word yet.

Jack and Preacher slipped arms under her thighs and behind her back, counted to three and hefted close to four hundred pounds of woman into their arms and carried her the short distance to the gurney, lowering her onto it. They pulled it up, which took enormous effort given her weight, and got her to the back of the Hummer to slide that gurney inside.