Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(32)

Why in the world would his halting explanation spark regret instead of relief? Since she didn’t want to examine that question too closely, she concentrated on a question she did want an answer to. “Did you get hold of Wolf?”

“That I did. Your medications will be on the next chopper out,” he said, his eyes losing focus again.

She smiled in relief at the good news, but the emotion soon faded. From the tension on his face, and the nerve twitching in his cheek, something was wrong. “Then what’s the problem?”

That brought his attention back to her again, at least for a second. But then the stack of chocolate chip cookies suddenly mesmerized him. He just stood there, totally still, and stared at them.

Okay, this is weird. Is he in some kind of cookie-induced trance?

“They’re for eating.” She intended the comment as a joke, but it came out entirely too soft and serious.

He started, as though he’d forgotten she was there. But he instantly rallied, an expression of determination descending on his face. “I did some lookin’ into heart transplants online after talkin’ to Wolf.”

Uh-oh.

From the shadow building in his eyes, he hadn’t liked what he’d found.

“Okay . . .” She rolled the word out cautiously.

He ran his hand through his hair again, rumpling it even more. “You said you had your heart transplant when you were fourteen—fifteen years ago.”

“Actually . . .” She caught herself and dragged her eyes from the gleaming mop of blond hair. In her appreciative daze she’d almost corrected him. She’d had the second transplant at fourteen, the first one had been the year before. However, that information wasn’t necessary for him to know. “That’s right.”

He grunted. An honest-to-God grunt that somehow managed to sound disapproving.

“Accordin’ to every article I found, the average viability of a transplanted pediatric heart is eleven years.”

Faith cocked her head and eyed him with curiosity. Where was he going with this? “I’m aware of that.”

“Your transplant was fifteen years ago. You’re four years past the average lifespan now.” He reminded her tightly, shoving his hand through his hair again.

“I’m aware of that too.” She shot another glance at his gleaming white-gold head. Maybe this constant scalp massage was his secret to such a thick, sexy head of hair.

“Sweet Jesus.” The words broke from him softly. He caught her gaze and held it, then gave an oddly resigned shrug. “Then you have to know you’ve reached the end of your heart’s viability.”

She frowned slightly, scanning his face. “Of course I know. But there’s no benefit in obsessing over something I have no control over.” A transparent truth she’d never been able to convince her parents of. “I’ve done everything possible to keep this heart healthy and to prolong its lifespan. Now it’s a waiting game.”

Waiting for her heart to fail. Waiting to get back on the transplant list. Waiting for a donor match. For as far back as she could remember, her life had been a game of wait and see. Even these last—relatively healthy—fifteen years had been marred by a sense of wariness . . . of expectation . . . the certainty that at some point her heart would act up again . . . and the stressful, frightening cycle would start for a third time. Only this time she might not come out the other end alive.

She cut off the cold shadow of fear and focused on the here and now. “It’s best to concentrate on what you can control, not what you can’t.”

She offered the rationale as much for her benefit as his. It never hurt to remind oneself of universal truths.

“What if there were somethin’ you could do, now, to increase your heart’s sustainability?” Rawls asked slowly, back to choosing his words with extreme care.

Just what the heck was he hinting at? Faith studied his shadowed face for clues. “You mean exercise? Diet? Been there, doing that.”

“Nah, I mean—” This time he ran both hands, in tandem, through his hair hard enough that she could hear the rasp of his nails scraping his scalp. “Look, this is gonna sound crazy, so hear me out, okay?”

Intrigued, Faith raised her eyebrows. It cost her nothing to listen. “Okay.”

“I’m guessin’ you haven’t realized this yet, or you would have said somethin’ . . . asked about it . . .” He rolled his shoulders and rocked from foot to foot, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Kait’s half-Arapaho—son-of-a-bitch!”

He suddenly flinched and jerked his arm hard to the right. Cradling his elbow against his chest, he scowled, his head turning from right to left, as though he were looking for something . . . or someone.

What the heck was wrong with him?

“Are you okay?” she asked, watching him with concern.

“Just a . . . just a cramp in my arm,” he said in a tight voice.

Okay . . . so why don’t I believe him? Besides . . . “What does Kait’s ethnicity have to do with my heart?”

He jerked back to face her, but his gaze continually flitted to the left, toward the cookies.

“If you want one that bad, just take one,” she said.

He growled something nasty under his breath, and she could actually see the struggle between his fixation on the stack of cookies and his willpower. Why was he so determined to resist the craving? He’d eaten her cookies before. After several uncomfortable seconds, he finally wrestled his full attention back to her.