“Yeah. Josh won’t be there for long, but we don’t know about Jagger, and I don’t want Paisley to go alone. And honestly, if I can see Josh for even five minutes…”

“You need to feel his heartbeat.”

My forehead dropped to my hands. “Yes. Does that make me weak?”

“That makes you human. He’s going to need you. I lived with him for almost two years, and he never really talked about what happened his first tour. Someone who carries that around, Ember, they’re going to need to lean somewhere.”

He hadn’t talked to me about it, either, just glossed over details, promised me he was fine, and moved on. But I’d never pushed.

Maybe you should have.

The front door opened, and Paisley popped her head in. “Car’s here. You ready?”

“Paisley’s here. We have to go. Give my love to Sam, and we’ll call you from Landstuhl.”

“I’ll keep my cell on,” he promised then hung up.

“I still can’t believe you found us plane tickets so quickly.” I hauled my bag down the stairs and grabbed my messenger bag from the couch. There was a knock at the door. “You called a cab?”

“Not exactly.” She opened my door to reveal a huge, suited man on our front porch.

“Miss Howard?” he asked from behind dark sunglasses.

“Yes,” I answered. He took my bags and walked to the black limousine. I raised my eyebrows at Paisley. “Was there a sale on limos?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, her face devoid of most color. The back door of the limo opened, revealing a man with Robert Redford looks and a tense version of the smile I knew well. Holy shit.

“Shall we go, ladies?” he asked, his voice a perfect balance of concern and efficiency.

“What did you do?” I whispered to Paisley.

“I called Jagger’s dad.”

My thoughts ran amok once we’d taken off in the private plane Senator Mansfield chartered for the trip. Paisley crashed out on the long couch, sorely needing sleep after today’s shit storm, and the Senator handled business at a table toward the back of the jet, aided by a leggy blonde that, I kid-you-not, was named Monica.

Paisley had been right to call Senator Mansfield. It was the only way we could have left this quickly, but what was Jagger going to think about accepting his dad’s help? It’s not like they were exactly on friendly terms—or even speaking.

I’d called Josh’s mom to trade information and love, my mom for moral support, and Grams for a little sanity before we took off.

Now it was just me, my thoughts, and eight hours of flight time from Fort Campbell to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany.

As thankful as I was that we’d been able to take off ridiculously fast, thanks to super-political dad, I wished that I’d been able to hear Josh’s voice when he woke up. At this rate, we’d be getting there right around the same time their medical transport landed.

Was he okay? Was his spleen really the only thing he’d needed surgery on? Did they set his arm there? Or would they do it in Germany? I had way too many questions and not enough answers.

But I’d see him in eight hours. I would hold him, kiss him, simply watch the rise and fall of his chest. I’d know that there hadn’t been some mistake—he’d made it.

No book or television show could hold my attention. My thoughts flew as fast as the jet. What did I say to him about the other casualties, the other two pilots who had been killed besides…Will?

Will, who fixed my disposal.

Will, who had given Jagger his Apache slot.

Will, who had pulled Josh through the Blackhawk course academically.

Will, who was coming home draped under a flag.

Like Dad.

I pulled my feet onto the soft leather seat and wrapped my arms around my knees. I was in limbo, stuck between my world falling apart and finding out just how much had been destroyed. Would Josh want me there in Germany? Did he need time? Space? There was nothing I could do besides wait. I felt weak, nauseated, and terrified that everything I was wouldn’t be enough for what was coming.

But he made it. He was alive.

And just like he’d taken care of me when Dad died, it was my turn to be Josh’s whatever, and that was something I could never fail at.

Chapter Fifteen

JOSH

The ceiling of the Kandahar surgical center looked different, or maybe I just didn’t remember it that well from the last time. I blinked, trying to clear the haze of drugs from my vision, simultaneously wishing for sobriety yet desperate to stay blessedly numb.

I raised my hand to my face but was stopped before my fingers reached the skin.

“You don’t want to do that yet.” The man’s voice was deep, comforting, familiar. “They just cleaned out the wounds. You’re not going to scar, but you go around shoving bacteria in there and all bets are off, son.” His grip was cool but firm as he lowered my hand.

“How long have I been here?” I asked, realizing I wasn’t quite with it enough to turn my head.

“About eighteen hours. Surgery took a little longer than we thought, but you’ll have full use of your leg.” A wave of déjà vu swept over me.

“Good. And my arm?” The drugs were strong and threatened to pull me back under.

“It’ll take some recovery time, but you’ll be okay there, too. You were a lucky guy, Josh. I think you’ll still be able to play hockey after recovery.”