The Loner - Lindsay McKenna

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still tingled when he’d suddenly reached out and gripped her. Strong fingers, but he monitored the strength of his grip around her wrist, she realized, even in a morphine state. Definitely a special kind of soldier.

      She knew little about SEALs. They were black ops. Secret. Defenders of this country. And heroes in her opinion. The look in his eyes guaranteed all of that. The man had shaken her, but not in a bad way, just an unexpected way. He’d somehow gotten to her womanly core. She’d been responding to him man-to-woman. Blowing out a breath of air in frustration, Shelby turned on her booted heel and forced herself to get the paperwork finished. First things first. She’d leave the papers with the nurses’ desk and then go out and make sure the gray wolf was all right.

      As Shelby approached the desk, an older nurse with steel-gray hair beckoned to her. Shelby recognized nurse Patty Fielding.

      “Hey, Shelby, do you know about that guy?” Patty whispered, coming up to her at the desk.

      “No. Why?” Shelby handed her the papers that needed to be filled out.

      “He’s known as The Loner around here. He got here a year ago and was supposed to see Dr. McPherson about his shoulder injury once a week. He never came back for subsequent appointments after the first one.”

      Shelby’s heart went out to Dakota Carson. “He’s a military vet,” she whispered, feeling sorry for him.

      “Oh, honey,” Patty said, taking the papers, “he’s also a SEAL. Those guys rock in my world. They’re on the front lines around the world fighting for us. They’re in harm’s way every time they take a mission.” Patty shook her head. “Such a shame. He’s an incredibly valiant vet. He’s got a lot of problems, physical and mental.”

      “And was he seeing Dr. McPherson for his arm injury?”

      “Technically, yes, for nerve damage. But she’s our PTSD expert here at the hospital, too.”

      Standing there, Shelby asked, “Is that why he lives alone? Out in the middle of nowhere?” She recalled the Vietnam vets who had PTSD. At that time, it wasn’t diagnosed except to call it “battle fatigue.”

      Patty filled out the forms and signed them with a flourish. “Yes, and those guys got no help at all. It broke my heart. Oh, and no address on Mr. Carson.”

      “What about family?”

      Patty sighed and said, “His parents died in a crash when he was eighteen. Froze to death during the blizzard. They found their car two days later and it was too late.”

      Shelby’s heart plummeted. “That’s so sad.”

      “Yeah, this guy has had a very rough life. You don’t know the half of it.” Patty smiled and handed her the papers. “Gotta go!”

      “I’ll be back in an hour.”

      “Take care of that wolf of his,” she said, lifting her hand in farewell. “She’s a sweet girl.”

      Shelby smiled a little and thanked the nurse for the information. As she headed out the doors of the E.R., the sun just crested the eastern horizon. What was it about this ex-SEAL that grabbed her heart? Grabbed all of her attention? Somehow the name Carson was one she knew. Stymied, Shelby walked carefully over the slick areas of black ice and circumvented the patches of snow. Out in the parking lot, she could see Carson’s beat-up truck. It looked a lot like him, Shelby thought sadly. There was something in his eyes that shouted incredible loss. Loss of what?

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHELBY HAD THE FEMALE gray wolf and she rode quietly in the backseat of her Tahoe cruiser. She just dropped off the papers to the courthouse when she received a call from Alanna.

      Picking up the radio, Shelby continued to drive slowly through Jackson Hole traffic, on her way out to the hospital. The hour was almost up. “Go ahead, Alanna,” she said.

      “Shelby, Dr. McPherson said for you to drop by at 9:00 a.m. Can you do it?”

      “Sure,” she said, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. “I thought I was supposed to come back in about twenty minutes.”

      “No, Dr. McPherson said the surgery on Mr. Carson’s arm is going to be longer than she anticipated.”

      “Roger that.”

      “Thanks, out.”

      Placing the radio back in the bracket, Shelby grimaced. If the surgery was taking longer, it meant Dakota Carson’s bear bite was a lot worse than anyone had thought. Her shift ended shortly, but she’d told the commander at the sheriff’s office what had happened. Steve McCall was humored to see a gray wolf in the backseat of her cruiser. Lucky for her, Steve, who had been her father’s replacement as Tetons County sheriff, accepted her sometimes quirky days. But all deputies had unusual days every once in a while.

      As she drove, Shelby couldn’t shake the intense look in Dakota Carson’s eyes. What was his story? She had more questions than answers. Maybe, if she got lucky, she’d intersect with Jordana and find out. As the head of E.R. for the hospital, Jordana McPherson knew just about everything and everyone. Another good source was Gwen Garner, who owned the quilt shop on the plaza.

      A call came in, an accident on a side street, and Shelby figured she had time to take the call before showing up at the hospital. Even though she was focused on the accident, her heart was centered on the mystery of Dakota Carson. What the hell was he doing out at dawn killing a grizzly bear? That was against the law. And the Tetons National Park ranger supervisor, Charley, wasn’t going to be happy about it, either. The ex-SEAL was in deep trouble whether he knew it or not.

      * * *

      DAKOTA CARSON WAS IN recovery when he slowly came out from beneath the anesthesia. As he opened his eyes, he saw two women standing side by side. Dr. McPherson smiled a silent hello. But his gaze lingered on the sheriff’s deputy. In his hazy in-between state, Dakota was mesmerized by the strands of bright color in her hair.

      “Dakota? Good news,” Jordana said. “We were able to fix your arm.” Her lips twitched. “And it’s got a nice, new dressing on it without the duct tape.”

      Dakota liked and trusted the woman doctor. One corner of his mouth hitched upward. “Good to hear, Doc. Thanks for patching me up.”

      “Do me a favor? Move your fingers on your left hand for me. One at a time.”

      He moved them. “All five work,” he said, feeling woozy and slightly nauseated. Carson knew it was the anesthesia. The nausea would pass.

      Jordana slid her hand beneath his. She gently turned his heavily bandaged arm over so that his palm faced up. “Do you feel this?” She pricked each of his fingers with a slender instrument, including his thumb.

      “Yeah, it hurts like hell. They’re all responding,” he assured her.

      “Good,” Jordana said, moving his arm so that it rested naturally at his side.

      Dakota looked around. “When can I leave?”

      “You need to spend the night here, Dakota.”

      “No way,” he grunted, trying to sit up. Head spinning, he flopped back down on the pillow. The deputy was frowning, but even then she looked beautiful. She no longer wore her big, puffy brown nylon jacket. It hung over her left arm. Shelby was tall, maybe a few inches shorter than he was. Her shoulders were drawn back with natural pride. The look in her blue eyes, however, was one of somber seriousness. He had a feeling she wanted to question him about the dead grizzly. There would be hell to pay for killing a bear out of season.

      “Way,” Jordana said, placing her hand on his white-gowned shoulder. “You’re still in shock, Dakota. You know what that does to a person? You’re no stranger to it.”

      He scowled. Dr. McPherson was a PTSD expert. When he’d come back to Jackson Hole, the navy had ordered him to see her once a week for his symptoms. Of course,

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