Page 8 of Warrior's Walk

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a semblance of a smile. “My mama, she’s a real southern belle. Her favorite movie isGone With The Wind.”

I recall the B on his dog tag. “Let me guess, your middle name is Butler? Like Rhett Butler?” I’m just cracking dumb jokes because I want to see him smile again. A full one this time.

“You guessed it. But don’t tell anyone. That’s my darkest secret.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I choke. “For real?”

This time, both corners of his mouth curve. “Cross my heart.”

“By God,” I breathe. “A real southern gentleman.”

I think he tries to laugh, but coughs instead. “Never said I was a gentleman.”

“Yo, Marsh! You in here?” The voices come from the door, and I guess it must be his buddies coming to check on him.

“Sounds like you’ve got company, soldier.” Why am I still calling him that now that I know his name?

I slip my hand from his grip and push to my feet to give them the chair.

Rhett turns his pleading eyes on me. “You’ll be back, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back.” His transport doesn’t leave for eight more hours, and I plan to spend them with him. I’m on shift all night anyway, with nothing but time on my hands. But even if I weren’t, walking away from him just feels… I just can’t do it.

I busy myself with paperwork, updating his chart while he visits with his friends. They’re loud, and I can hear their voices drift across the med bay as they try to rally his spirits. They’rejuiced on adrenaline, high from the fight, and even though they all just lost a good friend, they’re choosing to focus on the one they’ve still got left instead of bringing him down with the pain of Biddell’s loss.

I’ve got to respect that about them.

Reading over his stats, I realize how close I’d come to losing him. His blood pressure hadn’t just tanked, it’d been in the damn toilet. He lost a lot of blood. Thankfully, no arteries were severed.

I hadn’t met Rhett Butler Marsh until today. He’s a stranger to me. So why can’t I walk away? Why am I committed to sitting by his side, holding his hand, and bearing witness to his tears, until I board him on the transport?

He has a beautiful face; harsh, rugged angles softened by plush lips and thick, dark lashes. It’s a face I never want to haunt me in my dreams. But if I’d lost him today, he surely would. Every night of my life. Just like Mark Grainger.

Leaning against the counter, I watch him with his buddies. His arms are down by his sides, not gripping them for dear life. His mouth is pulled into a tight line, grimacing through his pain as he tries to put on a good face for them. Totally opposite of how he was with me. He fell apart in front of me, not afraid to show me his pain. I think that was the moment that solidified my need to protect him. My chest feels heavy, and I rub the heel of my hand over my heart as it begins to burn.

Why am I so afraid of losing you when you’re not even mine?

When his buddies clear out, I drift back over to his side, and he automatically reaches for my hand. He grits his teeth, talking through them.

“Am I gonna lose my leg?”

“I’m no surgeon, but… I’ve seen a lot of bad breaks, and this one is?—”

“You’re also not a fuckin’ recruiter, so don’t blow sunshine up my ass. Give it to me straight, doc.”

“Most likely, they’ll be able to fix it, but afterwards…that’s when the danger sets in. Infection, gangrene…”Please God, don’t let him lose his leg.

Rhett turns his head away. “I’d rather fuckin’ die.”

Red-hot anger surges through me. I grab his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare! I busted my ass to keep you alive, and you’re gonna fucking live, dammit. Don’t cry like a pussy over a broken leg, soldier. The rest of you works just fine. I know plenty of guys who live a full, happy life with just one leg. Be grateful you’re still alive!”

Tears stream from his bloodshot eyes and I feel like a world-class prick.

“I’m…” he coughs and then winces from the way it shakes his body. “I’m scared.”

I can see it in his eyes—stark, naked fear. “The worst of it is over, soldier. It’s all downhill from here.” A total fucking lie, but it’s what he needs to hear right now.

His lids grow heavy, drooping to half-mast, and he maintains eye contact with me until his lids close slowly. Once he’s fully knocked out, I check his vitals again and swap out the bandage on his leg. Rhett sleeps fitfully, jerking and mumbling, his face drawn tight. I want to ease his pain, to smooth his features and comfort him. If we were just two guys in a bar, I would love to see him laugh, to watch his eyes shine with life and mirth, to experience the full assault of his personality. Rhett looks like he would be a real charmer. If only we cou—but no, we’re not just two guys in a bar. He’s my patient who’s fighting for his life, who just lost his friend, and in seven hours, he’ll be gone, and I’ll never see him again.

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