Reluctant remorse encroached on her anger as she watched him struggle to board the bus.
But what could she do? She couldn't force him to seek treatment if he wouldn't admit to a problem. If she were a gambler, she would bet he hadn't even been the one to place the call for a flight surgeon in the first place.
Not that she was one to waste her money, time or energy on chance. Logic served better.
And more faithfully.
Kathleen clambered back inside the ambulance, her exasperation over his senseless testosterone dance igniting again. Logic told her Tanner Bennett wouldn't be able to roll out of bed by morning, and she was the flight surgeon on call until noon.
She slammed the ambulance door shut. Hard. With any luck the big lug would oversleep and someone else could treat his wounded back and tender ego.
Too late, Kathleen recalled she'd never believed in luck any more than chance.
Chapter 2
Two hundred twenty-three. Two hundred twenty-four.
Tanner counted the tan cinderblocks in the wall for the eleventh time that morning. Not much else to do since he couldn't move. His reach for the telephone fifteen minutes ago had left him cursing—and shaking.
He cut his gaze toward the clock, not risking more than half a head turn.
The time—8:30 a.m.—glowed from the clock in the dim room, the only other light slanting through a slight part in the curtains.
He sure hoped Cutter had gone on call at eight.
After waking and realizing he couldn't haul his sorry butt out of bed, Tanner had shouted for Lance in the next VOQ—Visiting Officer's Quarter. Their rooms, connected by a bath, were close enough that Lance would have heard had he been around. No luck. The telephone call to the clinic had been a last-ditch resort.
Where was Cutter? Didn't the guy ever check his messages?
Tanner hiked the polyester bedspread over his bare chest. Even the small movement hurt like a son of a gun. How long before it let up? Lying around left him with too much time to think. He preferred action, needed to be back out on the flight line.
The flight line.
Images of Kathleen O'Connell looking mad enough to chew rivets blindsided Tanner when he didn't have any chance or the physical capability of ducking.
Had he actually touched her?
Awash in post-battle adrenaline, he'd found her fire stirred his, as well. With a will of its own, his hand had swiped that silky strand of hair away from her face.
Surely the impulse was only combat aftermath, emotions running high. He didn't think of her that way.
But he had before.
Tanner's head dug back in his pillow as if he might somehow dodge memories he couldn't suppress. His first day at the Air Force Academy, he'd seen Kathleen walking across the parade ground, vibrant, toned and radiating a confidence that had found an answer within him. Every hormone in his eighteen-year-old body had roared to life.
Until he'd noticed she wore a beret with her uniform, the distinguishing symbol of an upperclassman.
Relationships between upperclassmen and freshmen-doolies were forbidden. Grounds for expulsion. And he wasn't throwing away his career for anyone.
Maybe later, he'd thought…
Later she'd become his training officer and his own personal ticket to hell. Training officers were universally resented by the doolies they hammered into Academy material.
Tanner had stuffed his hormones into his footlocker and concentrated on getting through his freshman year. Becoming a pilot meant everything to him, and he wouldn't risk it.
Something that hadn't changed in twelve years.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. Closer. With a light tread that launched a wave of foreboding in Tanner. Unless Cutter had lost about seventy pounds and developed a decided glide to his walk, those footsteps didn't belong to him.