Stirred Up By a SEAL

Chapter 3-1

3

Rachel had snuck out early. At least that was Jonah’s assumption when he woke with his alarm to find her already gone. She had to be avoiding him. There was no other reason for her not to ride in with him. At least he’d have a chance to talk to her alone when he got to the bakery. He’d texted Holt last night, telling him to wait to come in until his usual time after getting his daughter off to the summer art camp she was doing this week. Or was it vacation Bible school? Jonah had lost track.

His brain felt like it was cotton soaked with Jell-O. The four hours of sleep he’d managed weren’t nearly enough, and chances were, he’d be paying for it later. But he needed to clear the air with Rachel and set things back to rights. Whatever that was going to look like since The Kiss. That was largely going to depend on her and the specifics of what she wanted. Regardless of his own wants, he’d do what was best for her. But he needed more information to determine what that was, and that meant hauling his a*s to the bakery.

According to the app on his phone, the security system still showed as set, so she couldn’t be that far ahead of him. Dragging on jeans and one of the Bad Boy Bakers T-shirts that constituted their uniform, he grabbed his keys and stumbled out to his truck. At least there was no traffic at this hour, and nobody to bust him for breaking a few speed limits on the way.

Her car was parked out front, but the lights inside weren’t on.

Maybe she was around the corner of the porch, unlocking the door.

Jonah slid out of the truck and went instantly on alert. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t know what tipped him off and didn’t stop to analyze. His Glock 19 was in his hand without a second’s thought as he edged toward the steps. With everything that had happened over the past six months, none of them were ever unarmed. He climbed the two steps to the porch, moving like the ghost he’d been trained to be. His eyes scanned the area for something amiss. Only having full hearing in one ear left him feeling at a stark disadvantage, and he’d yet to fully adapt. The damned ringing in his bad ear drowned out everything but the loudest of the night insects.

When he spotted the body sprawled facedown on the porch, his heart all but froze in absolute terror. He knew the dark wet stain on the porch boards was blood even before he dropped to his knees beside her. Fingers shaking, he checked her throat for a pulse, sending up a desperate prayer of thanks when he felt the flutter of it beneath his fingers. Training warred with instinct, but in the end, he rose and quickly checked the rest of the area for her assailant. Finding no one, he unlocked the door long enough to disarm the alarm and switch on the lights, and rushed back, cursing himself eight ways from Sunday as he stabilized her head, neck, and shoulders and carefully rolled her over.

“Rachel. Rachel, baby, wake up.”

But she didn’t rouse as he checked her over for other injuries. There didn’t appear to be anything else, but the head injury was bad enough. Blood flowed freely from a gash on her temple. He carefully probed the edges, not feeling any obvious sign of skull fracture, but he didn’t risk a more thorough examination. She needed medical attention, and she needed it now. The nearest ambulance would be nearly an hour out, and he didn’t know how long it might take to rouse any EMTs from the volunteer fire department. He wasn’t risking the wait. Clutching her carefully to his chest, he carried her to the truck, settling her in the front seat and buckling her in before leaning it back. Yanking the first aid kit from the center console, he dug for sterile gauze pads, gently pressing them to the wound. They soaked through in seconds. Swearing, he opened more, doing what he could with more gauze to secure them in place. Then he raced around the front and dove for the driver’s seat.

His tires spit gravel as he reversed, heading for the road.

The moment his phone connected over Bluetooth, he dialed Holt.

The phone only rang once before Holt picked up, his voice rough but alert. “Yeah?”

“Get to the bakery. Rachel’s been attacked.”

“What?” There was a sound of bedsprings and then movement. “I’m on my way. Is she okay?”

“I don’t—” Because panic was threatening to take over, Jonah curled his hands around the wheel until his knuckles went white. He took a breath. “She’s alive, but unconscious. Head injury. I don’t know if she was struck directly or if she got pushed into something and hit her head on the way down. There’s a lot of blood.” He sucked in another breath. “The scene was clear by the time I got there, and I locked the door back. I’m taking her to the hospital.” It would be faster than waiting for an ambulance to come all the way from Johnson City.

“I’ll deal with the police. Have you called them?”

“Not yet.”

“Take care of Rachel. Let me know what the doctor says.”

He didn’t offer false platitudes, and Jonah appreciated it. Both of them knew that there were never guarantees that someone was going to be okay.

“Yeah. I will.”

He hung up, and as soon as he hit the highway, he turned on his emergency flashers and put the pedal to the metal, flying toward help. He kept glancing over at Rachel, looking for any sign of consciousness. She looked so pale in the cold LED lights from his dash.

Unable to stop himself, he reached over to grip her hand. Her fingers were cold in his. Shifting his grip, he pressed his fingers to the pulse in her wrist. It continued to bump against his fingers, slow but steady.

“Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you f*****g dare. I can’t lose you.”

She groaned, shifting on the seat at the sound of his voice.

His heart leapt. “Rachel? Can you hear me?”

But she didn’t respond again.

Keeping his fingers on her and talking the whole way, he made the usual forty-five minute drive in half that time, leaving a fair amount of burnt rubber on the pavement as he skidded to a stop outside the entrance to the Emergency Department. He’d already flung himself out of the truck when a security guard stepped out of the sliding doors.

“I need a wheelchair. A gurney. Something.”

He ducked into the front passenger seat and unfastened the seatbelt, scooping Rachel’s still limp form into his arms. Her color wasn’t good, and she was motionless as a corpse, but for the shallow rise and fall of her chest. “Hang on, baby. Just hang on.”

She groaned again, turning her face into his chest. “Jo—”

At the faint rasp of her voice, Jonah had to fight not to curl tight around her in relief. “Rachel. I’m here, baby.”

He gently laid her on the gurney someone wheeled up and began reeling off details to the medical personnel who’d gathered around. “Victim is a thirty-two-year-old female with blunt force trauma to her right temple. She’s been unconscious for about forty minutes since I found her, but seems to be rousing now. I don’t know how long she was out before that.”

The cluster of people rushed her through another interior set of double doors, where they’d doubtless be running tests.

A nurse stepped into his path. “What’s her name?”

“Rachel McCleary.”

“Someone will be out to get more information from you in a bit. We’ll take it from here.”

Jonah stopped, his hands curling into fists. But he nodded and watched as the doors closed behind them.

This was all his fault. She was here because of him. If he hadn’t sat on his theory, hadn’t kept quiet just so they could get through the vow renewal with no more interruptions or drama, they might have caught this son of a b***h already. But he hadn’t done that, and she’d been hurt.

Self recriminations threatened to drown him. Lacing his hands behind his head, he paced a tight circuit.

Shut it down. You can kick your own a*s later.

Right now, Rachel was alive, and he’d move heaven and earth to keep her that way.