The Warrior's B & B
By Jennie Atkins
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He promised me he’d stay out of harm’s way.
Sage Johnson’s shoulders sagged. Derick Rogers had made her a promise he couldn’t keep, because, after all, he was the property of the United States Marine Corps. But, God help her, she wanted to hold him to it!
She marched down the corridor of Walter Reed Hospital, her fists clenched at her side, eager to give Derick a piece of her mind. But with every flap of her shoes against the hospital floor, her determination dwindled and pain clogged her throat. For the first time since he’d announced he wanted to be a Marine—in third grade—she felt . . . afraid. The truth of what she’d find when she walked through that hospital door pummeled her.
With her hand on the door handle to his room, she stopped. Pressed her eyes closed, fighting the images her imagination produced. Maybe it was the fear she’d harbored since he put on a military uniform. Maybe it was Derick’s eagerness to stand in the gap for others with no consideration for his life or limb. Or his lifelong desire to be the man his father was—a true patriot, a man of his word, a Marine.
She leaned her forehead against the cool metal doorframe, willing her surroundings to stop their spin.
“Are you okay?” An elderly woman lay her hand on Sage’s arm, concern in her gaze.
Sage straightened. How could she explain the dread radiating through her? The details Marge, Derick’s grandmother, relayed to her were sparse at best—an explosion occurred. Men died. Derick was hurt. She fumbled with the necklace at her throat, a golden heart Derick had given her. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The kind woman patted her arm and shuffled away, leaving Sage to gather her strength before facing the inevitable.
She sucked in a calming breath and entered the room, her pulse pounding in her ears. Derick’s situation was more intense than anything she’d envisioned. She stepped toward the foot of an empty bed and held on, praying her knees wouldn’t buckle beneath her.
She’d spent her seven-hour drive praying for Derick, clinging to the hope Marge had imagined the worst.
But she hadn’t.
Derick lay on the other bed, his head bandaged with thick, sterile pads covering each eye. Deep bruises painted his face and arms, and a metal apparatus restrained his legs.
Her blood roared through her veins as a chill enveloped her.
“Who’s there?” Derick cocked his head.
Sage cleared her throat, forcing air past her tightened vocal cords. “It’s me.”
“Sage?”
She stepped to his side and slipped her hand in his. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the tears slipping down her cheeks or the white of her knuckles as she clutched the bedrail with her other hand.
“What are you doing here?” His words held a bite.
She blinked at his tart reply. “Your grandmother called me. T . . . told me you’d been hurt.”
He fisted one hand. “I told her I didn’t want any visitors.”
Something Marge failed to relay to her.
“This is no place for you. You should have stayed at home, Sage.” His lips thinned.
“Why? I thought . . .” After Marge called, it took Sage all of fifteen minutes to check her calendar and toss a few items into an overnight bag. Including a dozen of Derick’s favorite cookies she’d baked the day before.
Didn’t he want to see her? Hadn’t he told her as much in his letters? The same ones she’d read so many times, she could recite them from memory? The notes where he shared his dreams of them walking along the moonlit shores of Victory Island. Hinting at a future together.
“Well, you thought wrong. You didn’t believe all that hogwash, did you?” He reached up and gave his pillow a tug.
“Here, let me help you.” She grabbed for the pillow.
“Don’t you get it? I don’t need your help.” He fisted his hand and pounded the bed at his side.
She stepped back, folded her arms across her stomach. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
He slid his hand along the bedside table, his fingers searching the laminate finish.
“You want some water?” She scooted around the end of the bed. “I can get . . .”
As he raised his hand to stop her, his fingers grazed the uncapped bottle, toppling it onto his lap. He grasped it with one hand while slapping the other across the table. She stood powerless to help him. She wanted to lean forward, grab the box of tissues from his bedside table, but the blue word slipping through pursed lips brought her up short.
He stuffed his fingers into the box of tissues, yanking out a handful, and mopped at the water on his leg. “I told you I don’t want your help, Sage.”
He fumbled for the button for the nurse and pressed it. “I don’t need your pity, either. Why don’t you leave? Forget you ever knew me. You’d be better off with someone else.”
His words clawed through her. She shriveled into the corner of the room. Anger flash over his handsome features—the pinch of his lips, the twitch of his bruised jaw. This wasn’t the Derick she knew.
A male nurse entered the room and turned her direction. “Please step outside while we change his sheets.”
She nodded. “I’ll go grab dinner and come back.”
“No.” Derick hitched his chin. “Go away, Sage, and don’t come back. I don’t love you anymore.”
Sage slapped her hand across her stomach, her muscles cramping as if Derick had gut-punched her. He didn’t love her? He wanted her to move on? How could she when she’d loved him . . . forever?
The nurse gave her a sad smile.
She mustered her strength, pulled a metal container from her purse, and thrust it into his hands. “Here. They’re your favorite.” Then, before she opened the door, her heart breaking in her chest, she turned to face him. “Goodbye, Derick.”
Sage hurried down the hallway, attempting to outrun the flow of tears gathering in her eyes. The memories and the grief dogging her steps since the death of her grandparents the week before multiplied exponentially with Derick’s rejection.
Outside, the storm that had rumbled across the sky as she’d entered the building earlier now fell from the heavens in a deluge. Rain streamed down her face, drenched her clothes, and masked the stream of tears demanding their release.
Why grandpa? Why did he turn me away?
Had it only been two weeks since she’d received the call that both of her grandparents had taken sick? And true to form, Jacob and Abigail McMann did everything together—even unto death—a week later.
Their sudden absence hollowed her out, gutted her soul, and left her chest aching.
What am I going to do, grandpa?
Get on with it. His voice echoed from the past.
That’s what he’d always done. Nothing had ever stopped him. Not the explosion, which took his legs and left him wheelchair bound. Not the loss of their only son, Sages’ uncle, at a young age.
But every morning, before the sun rose above the horizon. She’d find him in his worn leather chair, his head bowed, his lips moving in silent petition to The One he trusted the most.
Oh, how she wished she had his faith, his zest for life, even when the darkness surrounded him, as it did her now.
Sage slid into the car, shivering as the air conditioning blasted through the air vents. Why didn’t she wait for Derick to ask for help instead of taking pity on him? She knew better. Hadn’t she learned that in Physical Therapy 101? Or from years of watching her grandfather struggle through life too proud to ask for help?
She plucked a tissue from her purse and swiped at her face, then turned onto the highway. Condensation coated the window, and the wipers failed to clear the glass of the rain pounding the car.
She squinted, then blinked against the tears falling onto her cheeks.
Lights filled the inside of her car. Glittering streaks danced across the windshield. In as much time as it took her to breathe, she clutched the steering wheel, bracing against the inevitable impact.
She wanted to pray, but the words caught in her throat. The scene before her shifted into slow motion—the screech of twisting metal, the shattering of glass. The car tumbling into the night, lifting her from her seat and tossing her around like a rag doll.
Where was her seat belt? In her hurry to escape, had she forgotten to latch it around her?
Finally, the car slammed to a stop and thrust her forward, her neck ramming into the steering wheel. Her head hit the windshield as the impact propelled her from the car. Glass sliced at her cheek. Her throat. Pain radiated through her chest when she landed on the ground, skidding to a stop, her shoulder slamming into a hard object. She gasped for air as warm liquid ran down her cheek. Mercifully, somewhere between an image of Derick floating through her memory and her next heartbeat, she slipped into nothingness.