The Loner

He sat down and jerked off his gloves. There was a lot of blood and, chances were, the grizzly had sliced into a major artery in his left arm. He went into combat medic mode, one of his SEAL specialties. This meant he never left on a hunt without his H-gear, a harness he wore around his waist that had fifteen canvas pockets. Dakota jerked open his camo jacket. His hand shook as he dug into one pocket, which contained a tourniquet. Quickly, he slipped the tourniquet just below his elbow and jerked it tight. Pain reared up his upper arm, but the bleeding slowed a lot at the bite site. Tying it off, Dakota dug in another pocket, which contained a roll of duct tape. From another, he pulled out a pair of surgical scissors, sharper than hell. He straightened out his right leg out in front of him, then dug into the deep cargo pocket above his knee. In there, he grabbed a battle dressing.

He had to get to the hospital in Jackson Hole. Sooner. Not later. Dakota hated going into town. Hated being around people, but this grizzly had chewed up a helluva lot of his arm in one bite. He quickly placed the battle dressing across the wound, then wrapped it firmly with duct tape. Not exactly medically sound, but duct tape saved many a SEAL from more injury or bleeding to death over the years. After cutting the duct tape with the scissors, Dakota jammed all of the items back into his H-gear.

He was in shock. Familiar with these symptoms, Dakota picked up his rifle and signaled Storm to follow. She instantly leaped to her feet and loped to his side. Looking up, the sky lightening even more, Dakota knew he had a one-mile trek back to where his pickup was parked. Mouth thinning, he shouldered the rifle and moved swiftly through the thick grass. When the adrenaline wore off, he’d be in terrible pain. The shock would make him drive poorly and he could make some very bad decisions behind the wheel. It was a race of ten miles between here and the hospital to get emergency room help.

Cursing softly, he began to trot. It was a labored stride, the grass slick with frost, but he pushed himself. His breath came out in explosive jets, and he drew in as much air as he could into his lungs. Anchoring his wounded arm against his torso, he moved quickly up the slope and onto a flat plain.

Dakota could feel the continued loss of blood. Arteries, when sliced, usually closed up on their own within two minutes of being severed. However, the only time they wouldn’t was when they weren’t sliced at an angle. Then he knew he was in deep shit. A major artery could bleed out in two to three minutes. His heart would cavitate, like the pump it was, and then he’d die of cardiac arrest. Fortunately, the tourniquet was doing its job. It bought him time, but not much.

As he lumbered steadily toward the parking lot at the end of a dirt road in the Tetons, he thought it would be a fitting end if he did bleed out and die here. Some poor tourist hiker would find what was left of his body days or even weeks from now. The grizzlies in the area or the Snake River wolf pack might find him first. The shocked hiker would find only bones, no skin or flesh left on his sorry-assed carcass.

Mind spinning, Dakota continued to slip and slide through grass and drifts of knee-deep snow. Soon, the sun would bridge the horizon. It was a beautiful day, the sky a pale blue and cloudless, unlike yesterday. The snow from the blizzard was knee-deep in places. Several times, Dakota stumbled, fell, rolled and forced himself back up to his feet. As he ran, he discovered something: he wanted to live.

Why now? his soggy brain screamed. All you wanted to do before was crawl away like a hurt animal into the mountains, disappear from civilization and live out the rest of your life. Why now?

Dakota had no answer. He’d hidden for a year. And he’d healed up to a point. He wanted nothing to do with people because they couldn’t understand what he’d been through. No one would get that that was a life sentence—to spend the rest of his days on the fringes of society.

His heart pumped hard in his chest. Ahead, he could see his beat-up green-and-white rusted Ford truck. Only a little bit farther to go. Gasps tore out of his mouth, his eyes narrowing on the truck. With no idea where this sudden, surprising will to live came from, Dakota reached his truck. Storm halted, ready to jump in. He staggered, caught himself and then jerked the driver’s door open. The wolf was used to riding with him since he’d found her as a pup.

Dizziness assailed Dakota as Storm jumped in. He shook off the need to collapse, and glanced down at his arm. The battle dressing was a bright red, blood dripping down his hand and off his curved fingers. The cold was numbing, so he felt nothing, not even the warmth of his own blood. Struggling, he climbed into the truck. Dakota knew it would be a race to reach the hospital in time. The tourniquet stood between him and death right now. That gave him relief as he put the truck into gear and drove slowly down the wet, muddy road.

Storm whined. She thumped her tail once, catching Dakota’s darkened eyes.

“It will be all right,” he growled, wrestling the truck around, pain now pulsing rhythmically through his bite site.

But would it? Wasn’t that what he always told his SEAL friends who were shot and bleeding out? Sure to die, no matter what he did to try to stop the bleeding? It will be all right. Sure. Dakota jammed all those terrifying moments from the past out of his thoughts. He had to concentrate. He had to reach the emergency room of the hospital or die trying....

CHAPTER TWO

SHERIFF’S DEPUTY SHELBY Kincaid was walking toward the emergency room entrance to the Jackson Hole Hospital. She had paperwork on a prisoner that had to be updated by Dr. Jordana McPherson. The cool morning air made her glad she had her brown nylon jacket, although her blond hair lay abandoned around her shoulders. Something unusual caught her eye. Slowing, Shelby hesitated near the E.R. entrance. Was the guy pulling into the parking lot drunk? It was only 6:00 a.m., but she knew from plenty of experience that drunk drivers didn’t care what time it was.

The rusted-out Ford pickup crawled to a stop across two empty parking lanes. Shelby frowned and watched as the driver’s-side door creaked open with protest. She was less than a hundred feet away from the truck. The driver soon emerged. She didn’t recognize him as a local. He wore a two-day beard on his face. Something was wrong. Maybe it was her sixth sense, but Shelby stuffed the papers into the pocket of her jacket and quickly walked toward the man.

She spotted a gray dog in the front seat but kept her focus on the man in camo gear. He was tall, broad-shouldered and reminded her of a hunter she’d see in the fall around Jackson Hole. But this was spring and no hunting was allowed. This man was clearly in pain. His hair was black and military short, face square with high cheekbones. She’d never seen this dude before and she felt a sudden urgency that he was in trouble. The stride of her walk accelerated.

As he lurched drunkenly out of the seat, his large hand caught the edge of the door or he’d have fallen out. It was then Shelby noticed the strapped pistol on his right thigh. She tensed inwardly. Her blue eyes widened for a moment as he spun around, losing his grip on the door, barely able to keep his feet beneath him. That was when she saw his bloody arm pressed against his torso.

As she approached the truck, the dog whined. It was a sound of worry.

“Can I help you?” she called out. “I’m Deputy Kincaid.”

The man bent over, as if willing himself not to fall down. A dark red trail of blood ran down his left pant leg. He’d obviously lost a lot of blood. Automatically, she pressed the radio on the epaulet of her jacket located on her left shoulder.

“Annie, this is Shelby Kincaid. I’m out here I the parking lot of your E.R. Kindly get me a gurney and two orderlies? I’ve got a man out here a hundred feet from your door with an arm wound. He’s lost a lot of blood.” She clicked off the radio just as he raised his head toward her.

For a moment, Shelby felt her heart plunge. His face was drawn in pain, his lips thinned, the corners of his mouth drawn in, his pain evident. There was nothing tame about this guy. He was well built, powerful, yet the look in his light gold-brown eyes was marred with vulnerability. As he tried to straighten his left arm, he managed to rasp through gritted teeth, “Get me to the E.R.”

* * *

THE WOMAN REACHED OUT, her hand wrapping quickly around his right arm. “Lean on me,” she told him. “I’ve called for help and they’re on the way. I won’t let you fall.”

The world began to gray out around Dakota as the tall, statuesque blonde in a sheriff’s deputy uniform firmly gripped his upper arm. He was surprised at the cool authority in her unruffled voice, the strength of her hand around his arm. She looked like a Barbie doll, one who easily brought him into a standing position and guided his arm across her shoulders. For a Barbie doll, she was in damn good shape.

“Bullet wound?” she asked, taking his full weight.

“Bear bite,” he managed to rasp out, closing his eyes. “I’m going to faint. Too much blood loss...”

Instantly, Shelby placed her feet apart for better balance. She felt him go limp. Damn! She might be five foot eleven, but this guy was taller and bigger than she was. Glancing upward, she saw the gurney flying toward them with two men in green scrubs pushing it as fast as it would go.

Within moments, the two young men arrived. Together, the three of them wrestled the unconscious hunter up and on the gurney.

“Get him inside,” Shelby ordered, her voice tight with tension. She trotted at his side as the orderlies pushed the gurney full speed toward the doors. Gripping his good shoulder, Shelby didn’t want him to be knocked off while the gurney slipped and slid on the ice and snow across the asphalt. She glanced down at him. In that moment, the hunter looked vulnerable. But just barely. The duct tape around his bleeding left arm made her frown. Duct tape? Helluva way to stop a wound from bleeding out. Who was this guy?

Inside, Shelby spotted Dr. Jordana McPherson, head of E.R., running to meet them as they came inside the warm entrance.

“Shelby?” Jordana called, running up.

“Hunter, I guess. Said he was attacked by a bear and had lost a lot of blood,” she told the doctor. She stepped aside as they pushed the gurney into a blue-curtained cubicle. Shelby watched as Jordana quickly took a pair of scissors and cut through the silver duct tape on the hunter’s bloodied left arm.

“Okay, good to know. Who is he? Do we have any identification on him?”

Instantly, two other nurses appeared in the cubicle to help the doctor. They locked the wheels on the gurney.

Shelby moved next to the hunter. His face looked like chalk beneath his dark stubble. She sensed danger around this man for no specific reason. Quickly patting down his camo pants, she felt something in the right pocket on his thigh. She slid her fingers down into the deep pocket.

“God, he has everything in here but the kitchen sink,” she muttered, pulling articles out and laying them beside him. Finally, she discovered a wallet and stepped back as the nurses covered him with a blanket and started an IV.

She opened up the wallet. “His name is Dakota Carson.” Shelby looked over at Jordana. “Ring any bells, Doc?”

“Yes,” Jordana said, pulling the entire duct tape assembly away from his arm. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I thought I recognized him. He’s an ex-SEAL, just got a medical discharge from the U.S. Navy. I saw him once, a month ago. He was supposed to come here for follow-up physical therapy on his left shoulder.”

Nodding, Shelby placed the wallet on a tray where the nurse had placed all the other items. “Never seen him before.”

“Mr. Carson is a loner.” Jordana’s mouth tightened as she surveyed his chewed-up lower arm. “This bear has done some major damage to him....” Jordana looked to her red-haired nurse. “Alanna, get me an O.R. ready. And call in the ortho surgeon, Dr. Jamison. Get me his blood type.” Taking out her stethoscope, she pulled back the camo jacket and placed it over his heart.

Shelby felt the urgency and saw it in Jordana’s face. She’d come to like the E.R. doctor who was good at what she did. “How bad?”

“Bad,” she muttered, throwing the stethoscope around her neck. “He’s right, he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Just then, Dakota’s eyes slowly opened. “He’s coming around,” Shelby warned the E.R. doc.

“Amazing.”

Shelby placed her hand gently on his right shoulder. “Mr. Carson? You’re here in the E.R. at the hospital. You’re in good hands.” She looked into his murky-looking brown eyes, which were full of confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a groan issued forth. Shelby tightened her hand on his shoulder. The man was in incredible shape. A former Navy SEAL. She knew enough about SEALs to understand he was a warrior, the toughest of the tough. His eyes wandered for a moment, but then they stopped and focused on Shelby.

Sucking in a breath, Shelby felt the full measure of his intense gaze. Those eyes were hunter’s eyes. Huge black pupils on a field of golden-brown color. Surprise flared in his expression, and then, something else she couldn’t interpret.

She gave him a slight smile. “You’re in good hands. Dr. McPherson is here. You’re going to be all right.”