Hers to Heal

  Hers to Heal is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Excerpt from Her Forever Hero by Vonnie Davis copyright © 2016 by Vonnie Davis

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Her Forever Hero by Vonnie Davis. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101967935

  Ebook ISBN 9781101967935

  Cover design: Jae Song

  Cover photograph: MRBIG_PHOTOGRAPHY/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dedication

  Suggested Reading

  By Vonnie Davis

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Her Forever Hero

  Preface

  In the Hill Country of Texas, a community developed around an old Apache legend pertaining to Warrior Falls. Myth or truth, this particular bit of Native American lore has been handed down, generation to generation, about the rocks in Warrior Falls carrying magical healing powers. Wounded Apaches would stand or be carried beneath the waterfall for the healing-infused waters to stream over their injuries.

  Over time, Warrior Falls has grown to a population nearing six thousand. Its streets boast quaint shops, restaurants, and supply stores in addition to two traffic lights. Down-to-earth, often quirky people operate these businesses. Residents and nearby ranchers love their close-knit community just the way it is. Which is why the secret hidden deep within the cave behind the waterfalls is so closely guarded.

  Until a team of present-day wounded warriors slowly trickle into town…

  This is Reece “Steelhead” Browning’s story.

  Chapter 1

  Reece Browning hated everything.

  He hated that he was no longer a SEAL in Team 5, that he had only one arm, and that he’d mentally changed into a person he barely recognized. He hated wearing a prosthetic, which was why he kept throwing it away. And he positively hated how his physical therapist kept carrying the damned arm back in, cleaning it up, and standing over him like a mouthy Marine drill sergeant until Reece reattached it.

  What he really detested was that she was a former Marine—a willowy, blond, brown-eyed, opinionated, ballsy ex-Marine by the name of Gina Wilson. Who, right at this moment, had her powerful hands on his bare ass, giving his wounded muscles and resulting scars one hellacious massage.

  Okay, so maybe he didn’t hate this part so much.

  “This should take care of some of the pain in your sciatic nerve. Once I’m through, I’ll put an ice pack on it. Keep it there for twenty minutes.”

  He grunted in response.

  “A word of warning: If I come here tomorrow and you’re not wearing that arm, I’m going to shove it up your ass, Reece. Our goal is to make you as functional as you were before you lost your real one. Yes, it’ll take us time and hard work, but the benefits will far outweigh the efforts. You’re not afraid of pushing yourself, are you?”

  “Hell no!” Refusing to give her anything more to harp about, he mentally turned her off and stared at the green wall of his room. His mind drifted. Early in the mornings, in the soft sunlight, the green reminded him of a stalk of celery in a strong, spicy Bloody Mary—his late mother’s favorite drink. Wasn’t it strange as hell how his mind now worked? His mom’s dying words as pancreatic cancer consumed her were: “God, I could use a Bloody Mary.” He hoped they had an open bar in heaven. She’d be drunk as hell if she could see him now.

  “Either that or I’m going to program your arm so the fingers clamp onto your penis if you try to remove the prosthesis before nine at night.”

  Gina’s persistent yapping invaded his earlier thoughts of losing his mother. Tomorrow would be two years since she’d gotten her angel wings.

  “It’s been you and me every day for three weeks, and I’ve had to do all the talking. Three weeks of listening to myself breaking the silence. I gotta tell ya, you have a very limited vocabulary…a male grunt, ‘no,’ and ‘hell no.’ Oh, and let’s not forget your favorite, ‘fuck you.’ You know, just to see if you’d verbally react, I’d say you have a nice ass,” her fingertips lightly caressed his flesh, instantly making him harder than the barrel of an M4 carbine, “but then you’re all ass.”

  She was goading him.

  And, hell, he hated being goaded.

  “Now I know why your SEAL brothers nicknamed you Steelhead. Damned if you aren’t the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.”

  He smiled into the white sheet on the king-sized bed.

  “Guess what my nickname was in the Corps?” She slapped his ass and his eyes popped open. “Just guess!”

  Motor Mouth? Lip Smacker? Talk-n-Plenty?

  She began making small circles on his butt cheeks with her thumbs for a deep tissue massage. God, he did not like this part at all. Her first few rotations forced him to suck air and tense his legs.

  “Can’t think of an answer?” She leaned over so her breasts pressed against his t-shirt. “Thumbs of Bitchin’ Steel. Tobs, for short,” she whispered in his ear and then straightened to press harder with her steely thumbs.

  Kee-ryst! No fake.

  When his former commander Zane Quinlan, known simply as ZQ, started talking to Reece about coming to Eagle Ridge Ranch to heal in peace and quiet, away from the noise and nonsense of the world’s fast pace, he’d eventually acquiesced. He hadn’t counted on Gina…Motor Mouth…Bitchin’ whatever. He sneered into the bed. He loved this ranch. Her, not so much. No matter how physically attracted he was to her. And wasn’t that a bitch?

  Part of his decision to come to the Hill Country of Texas rested on former team members staying on or near ZQ’s 22,000-acre ranch and the camaraderie they still shared. That, and his love of horses.

  Dust, their team’s sniper, was living in Warrior Falls, a small town nearby, with his new wife, Kelcee. Dustin Franks had lost part of his leg in Raqqa, Syria.

  JJ had been the team’s demolition expert, assistant corpsman, and dog handler. Now that Jerryl Jacoby was a civilian, he’d been able to adopt the team’s German shepherd, Ordnance—or Nance, for short. JJ and Nance were both living and working on the ranch.

  The team’s beloved service dog had her ear shot off as they’d fought their way through Al-Hasakah in eastern Syria. That’s where Reece had lost his arm above the elbow in one hellacious explosion that pushed the ground away from his boots be
fore it snapped back and bit him in the ass. As he crumpled to the ground, dazed and disoriented by the bomb, radical forces had dashed out of the buildings like armed roaches and taken him prisoner.

  For three days, he’d been damn near beaten and tortured to death for information. He’d kept quiet. A SEAL lived to protect his team, his mission, and his country. Every scream, every shudder of pain he’d internalized into a shatterproof reinforcement of the oath he’d taken after BUD/S.

  No matter how many times he’d been slashed with knives, whipped with chains, or electrocuted, he hadn’t talked. He’d survived waterboarding in gasping, panicked silence, convinced death was only a waterlogged heartbeat away. His sheer willpower had won against those bastards.

  For Nance’s ear, for Dust’s leg, for his arm, and the fine line he now walked between sanity and insanity, and for all the women and children Reece had seen beheaded, he hated ISIS with a passion.

  His mother had raised him not to hate, to forgive with understanding. Now hate seemed to plague his soul.

  Where there was once light, darkness reigned.

  “You’re extra tense today, Reece. Want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

  He grunted, Gina’s words pulling him back from the edge.

  She snapped a chemical ice pack, taped it to his ass, and covered him with a sheet. The bed dipped as she lay beside him. He tensed from his hair tips to his toenails. What the hell is she doing?

  “Reece, look at me.” Her hand sifted through his hair, an intimate stroke he craved like he craved the rest of his arm, which scared the bejesus out of him. He didn’t want to be attracted to her, but her silky voice was like a sensual magnet.

  She exhaled a long sigh. “Be honest. Is it me you dislike? I want to help you get better and I can’t if you begrudge every word of instruction I give. Do you want me to get you another physical therapist? Because I will. Just say the word.”

  He stared at the wall, watched an imaginary crack form and black snakes, with blood-red eyes, slither from the crack in vile orange goo. It had taken him months to realize this repetitive horrific sight was all a deranged specter, a part of his PTSD. Now, it barely increased his pulse. While having Gina lying next to him had his heart hammering like machine-gun rounds.

  What the hell was she thinking getting in bed with him? He was strong enough to overpower her, to assault her. Hell, he was still a man, even with most of an arm gone.

  He’d never hurt her on purpose. How could he when her treatments were the high point of his days? His mania fueled by his PTSD was another factor—unpredictable and uncontrollable. Because he could never ignore that unsolicited part of his psyche, he struggled to keep his fascination for her under emotional lock and key.

  “Reece.” She tugged on his hair. “Do you want me to quit working with you?”

  He inhaled a deep breath and allowed the truth to quietly exhale. “No.” The woman would never know how much that one whispered word of honesty had cost him.

  —

  Gina closed Reece’s door behind her as she stepped into the hallway. She pivoted and leaned her flushed face against the cool wall. Her palms flattened on the barrier as if she were still maintaining touch with the man who was in so much emotional turmoil. Except for their initial meeting, he refused to look at her through his hazel eyes. Normally, he pretended she wasn’t there unless he was snarling.

  And, man, could the warrior snarl!

  He was like the proverbial lion with a thorn in his paw. He even had the mane of light brown hair to complete the wounded stalking king of the jungle image.

  She was getting too emotionally involved with her patient. Lying next to him in bed had been totally wrong, yet for the first time since that heinous night years ago, she’d felt no fear. She shouldn’t have fingered his coarse hair and, for damn sure, shouldn’t have slapped his mighty fine naked behind. That was totally out of line, but she was trying to elicit a reaction. It was useless. He kept his emotions buried too deep behind the rock-solid barricade of pain and horrific memories—having lived that way herself, she understood.

  Over the weekend, in a fit of physical work at her house, she’d accepted that this man was her kryptonite. Damn his mysterious, silent soul to hell. She’d been perfectly fine without a man for years. Now here she was, drawn to him like a double caramel macchiato or chocolate truffle ice cream or a new pair of cowgirl boots. Why him? She’d worked with male patients for years and none had touched her heart the way he had.

  None.

  She exhaled a long sigh. Dammit. Having my hormones kick into high gear is the last thing I need.

  Maybe working with wounded warriors wasn’t such a good idea. Not only could it be emotionally draining, but it drew her personal demons to the surface. For her daughter Piper’s sake, Gina had to keep her shit together.

  Her first patient at Eagle Ridge Ranch had been ZQ, helping him adapt to his foot prosthesis. Shortly afterward, he’d asked her to assist his mother, June, or Junebug as everyone called her, with the pain levels of her rheumatoid arthritis in her hands and neck.

  Then, over time, the ranch became a healing hub for former SEALs in retired Commander Zane Quinlan’s prior team. One by one, they came, and most of them stayed. JJ’s problems were more emotional and Gina had arranged for long-term counseling with Dr. Raymond, an expert in PTSD. Dustin had been a willing patient, who wanted normal mobility again, so he worked hard to use his assortment of leg prostheses for walking, running, and swimming. He was seeing Dr. Raymond, too. Now she had Reece—and she feared he had her.

  She picked her two satchels of equipment off the floor and strode through the ranch house, heading for her next appointment. This one was in town with Bill Flemings, owner of Bill’s Boots and Saddle Shop. Unlike Reece, Bill bitched and groused over everything as she treated him for a knee injury. He complained about the price of gas and the cost of leather, and gossiped about everyone in practically the whole county. The only way she could handle the old coot was to schmooze him with endearments.

  Gina stepped outside only to find Junebug planting some seedlings in her garden, singing as she worked. Gina stood at the end of the row, watching her plant onions. “Junebug, don’t you overdo it, now.”

  The older woman flopped back on her heels, her arms pinwheeling. “Fudge and buttermilk, you liked to frighten the devilment out of this old Texas rose!” She shaded her eyes with a wrinkled hand. “Want to play in the dirt with me for a while?”

  “No.” Gina laughed. “As tempting as that sounds, I need to go work on Bill Fleming’s knobby knee. With his high blood pressure, he had no business climbing that ladder. He ought to be thinking of retirement or hiring in younger help.”

  “You’re right there.” She stood and wiped her hands on her baggy jeans. “How was he today?” Her silver head jerked toward the house.

  Gina knew who “he” was—her worrisome patient. “Well, he didn’t yell. I got three grunts, a ‘no,’ and a ‘hell no.’ ” She hopped aside when a pygmy goat came running in her direction. “I worked up the courage to ask if he wanted another PT person, that it seemed as if he hated me.”

  Junebug nodded as she came closer, smelling of earth and sunshine. “Good for you.” She bent to pet the pesky goat. “It must be terrible to work with a patient every day who pretends you’re invisible. What did he say?”

  “He stared at the wall and finally whispered, ‘No.’ Meanwhile I overstepped my professional bounds. I smacked his bare ass and played with his hair.”

  Junebug’s dirty hand covered her mouth and her eyes twinkled. “Well, isn’t that interesting? How did he react to all that?”

  Gina curled her index finger against the tip of her thumb. “Zero reaction.”

  The older lady nodded in a sign of wisdom. “Then he liked it. He’s missing the human touch or…” Junebug winked, “he enjoys your touch.”

  “Don’t even go there.” I go there too often on my own.

  Movement to her l
eft caught her eye. Reece swaggered toward the stables. God, the man could swagger. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight ass, and long muscular legs that bunched and shifted when he walked. She swallowed the drool in her mouth. He certainly moved smoother after the massage she’d given him. His earlier limp was gone. Wait, hadn’t she put an ice pack on him?

  “Reece, you didn’t keep that ice pack on for twenty minutes!”

  He stopped and slowly moved his head to glare at her over his muscular shoulder. His male glare was so potent, she sucked air. A few seconds ticked by in silence while awareness and desire for the man practically whipped through her system, wetting her panties on its powerful and swift journey. Dear God!

  Chapter 2

  In the darkness of night, the ceiling in Reece’s room opened, and through the haze of a blood-red fog, large chains clunked toward his feet. No matter how he slid his heels over the sheets, the chains followed as if they had sensors directing them. The sheets and bed vanished, replaced by a filthy, cold concrete floor. Like cast-iron tentacles, the rigid links of chains aimed for his ankles, making a couple of loops around them to lift him. Blood, sweat, and urine hung heavy in the air.

  Having slipped back into his soundless mode, he internalized his screams of terror. Once he was hoisted from his prone position, the fierce questioning, screamed in a language he barely understood, began, followed by whipping and electrical shocks. I will not speak. I will not speak. I must remain silent.

  One of his captors swung a machete at Reece’s neck. The manacles released him. He fell onto the floor. The clean carpeted floor. Fibers welcomed his palm, caressed his fingers. Trembling, he reached for the side of his bed to anchor his position. He sat on the floor, his back pushed against the mattress, and his head between his upraised knees. A nightmare. Another fucking nightmare. Would they ever end?