the correct path, searching for injuries.
Distantly. As if he was watching himself from a place not here, not now. As if his heart and soul weren’t even connected to his mind or body. As if this wasn’t his one and only cousin who he’d grown up with, shared camping trips with, shared double dates with and had left behind when he’d enlisted so the army would pay for his education all those years ago.
“Can you feel my hand on yours?” Jordan steeled himself to hear the wrong answer, going into total thinking mode and leaving no room for mind-clouding emotions like fear.
“Yeah, I can.”
Holding his relief at bay, Jordan touched Rusty’s other hand then both his calves above his boots. As Rusty gave an affirmative to each touch, Jordan felt his emotions continue to detach themselves.
Stoicism and survival—at least mental survival—went hand in hand. It was a lesson he’d apparently missed during his time in medical school but had discovered quickly enough for himself while in the field. Combat conditions had made him a fast learner.
In a meek, scared voice, Rusty asked, “Jordan, am I okay?”
“Just checking you out, Rust Bucket.” From that place far remote from him where he’d left his emotions, Jordan knew calling his cousin by his detested nickname would be reassuring. Until the hospital’s helicopter arrived, soothing the patient was all he could do.
The patient. Jordan lumped Rusty in with the thousands of patients he’d treated. He wouldn’t allow himself to connect, wouldn’t allow himself to care. Not here. Not now.
Maybe that other Jordan, the one who seemed so far away from him right now, was caring. But all this Jordan felt was numb. And efficient.
Being efficient was critical.
Maybe later he could feel.
Or maybe later would never come.
But none of that mattered right now.
Finally, after he’d lost count of the breaths he’d begun to count in and out, he heard the helicopter land in the dark clearing where someone had set out flares.
As the paramedic crew got into place with their backboard and cervical collar and their professionalism, he heard himself give them a succinct account of the accident, of Rusty’s state of consciousness, of his initial findings of a possible broken arm and of Rusty’s pain level.
And the pain of Rusty, lying facedown in the dirt, hit him in the heart.
Too late, he remembered that numbness was better.
Still on his knees, he moved back, getting out of a paramedic’s way so he could do his job.
Desperately, he grasped for that numbness before it could slip away.
Instead, he could only kneel there in the dirt as he fought back the moisture that blurred his vision.
How many times had he knelt at the side of young men and women while he’d served his time in Afghanistan as they’d waited to be airlifted to safety? As if any place over there had felt safe.
Now was not the time to think of that.
Not now. Not ever, if he could keep pushing all those memories back.
Any second now he would find the strength, the motivation to stand.
He just needed to shore up his personal dam and everything would be fine.
Deseré stood next to him. When had she relinquished her position to the paramedic? When the paramedic had slipped the collar on and loaded Rusty onto the backboard, of course.
She put her hand on his shoulder, a firm touch followed by a squeeze.
And just like that he didn’t feel so alone, so isolated, so solely responsible.
As if Deseré’s voice had breached the invisible wall around him, he heard her tell the paramedics, “We’ll notify his family.”
That’s when he realized they had been speaking to him, asking him questions about next of kin, giving him information about where they were taking Rusty and how to contact the hospital for updates.
How many times had he spoken with families, giving them the same kind of information? Only he’d had to talk via phone to loved ones who had been continents away, speaking into an unsympathetic piece of plastic in his hand as he’d explained that their soldier had lost hands or eyes or legs.
He’d heard everything from silence to deep soulful keening over those invisible airwaves. Each response had burned itself into his mind.
How long would he fight the memories?
A paramedic knelt next to him, gently jostling him. “We’ve got the patient, Dr. Hart.”
How long had he knelt there, in the way?
Too long, even if it had only been for a few seconds.
He stood and backed away. From somewhere outside himself, he said, “I’ll follow in my truck.”
One of the rodeo clowns, who had been standing behind him and whom he’d been vaguely aware of, though he didn’t seem to belong in this scene with his brightly painted face, baggy clothes and suspenders, said quietly, “Jordan, you’re our medical professional on duty. We’ll have to shut down the event if you leave. I understand about Rusty and all, but there are some big purses and points on the line here.”
Jordan looked over at the woman with the ruined pants and blouse, filthy, too-delicate shoes and streaks of dirt on her cheek.
As if he were standing beside himself, watching, he saw himself lift his hand and wipe at a streak near her mouth with his thumb.
Her eyes deepened into a dark navy as she froze. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at him like a deer in the headlights, too stunned to run away.
Embarrassment dropped him back into himself as he realized what he’d done.
He clenched his fist as he focused on the problem at hand and made his decision. “My nurse practitioner will take over my duties here.”
He looked up, spotting Plato and Sissy, and motioned them over.
“Deseré Novak, meet Plato, my ranch help, and Sissy Hart, my sister and resident veterinarian. Ms. Novak will be taking over in my absence. Plato will introduce you around and show you the medical supplies. Sissy will make sure you have a place to stay tonight.” He paused, looking into each of their faces. “Any questions?”
Plato swiped his hand over his face. “You can take the officer out of the military, but you can’t …” He let the rest of his statement trail off under Jordan’s glare.
Beside him, Deseré was nodding her acceptance as if nothing could ruffle her composure.
Sissy frowned. “Jordan, where—?”
Jordan looked at the lights of the helicopter growing dimmer in the sky. “Call Nancy. This is her mess.”
“We’ve got this, Doctor.” Deseré gave him a calm, if tight smile. “Go do what you need to do.”
As if two massive boulders had fallen from his shoulders, Jordan felt energy course through him, the energy he needed to make it through tonight.
“Thanks.” Emotion had him sounding gruffer than he had intended.
Deseré didn’t seem to mind. “You’re welcome. Now go.”
Ignoring the shocked expressions on Sissy’s and Plato’s faces, Jordan took long, quick strides toward his truck as the helicopter lifted off, strobing bright light into the darkening sky.
As he climbed into his truck, he thought he should have nagging guilt about deserting his post. Instead, he felt comfort, deep down from the place where his instincts were born.
He was no longer alone.
For