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Her Healing Touch
“My head tells me I’m crazy to fall in love again…” Angel said.
“But my crazy heart has decided it likes you,” Burke said, taking her hand in his.
She felt his fingers close more firmly over hers. “Mine, too.” She met his stormy-looking eyes. “But I’m scared, Burke. Scared as hell. You’re going to be gone in a month. You’re never comin’ back.”
“I know….” Burke clearly read the frustration in her face, felt it in his own heart.
“I’m just not built emotionally for an affair, Burke.”
“I know that. That’s why I’ve been fighting my attraction to you. But it isn’t easy, Angel. It isn’t easy at all….”
LINDSAY MCKENNA
A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay has taught ceremony and healing ways from the time she was nine years old. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.
Her Healing Touch
Lindsay McKenna
To my husband, David,
whose love has always been healing for me.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
“Dude, this sucks,” Sergeant Angel Paredes muttered as she sat sulking on the gurney in the Black Jaguar Squadron dispensary.
Dr. Elizabeth Cornell studied the X rays she had put up on the light box. “Hmm. Well, Angel, you did it up right this time.” Tracing the X ray of Angel’s left shoulder with an index finger, Elizabeth turned to look at her assistant. “Your biceps tendon is inflamed. You have tendonitis. Congratulations.”
“Damn…”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Elizabeth said, quirking her lips. “You know what that means?”
“That you’re gonna give me an anti-inflammatory shot to ease my considerable pain, so I stop acting like an irritable pit bull. Right?”
Grinning, Elizabeth turned off the light box and put the two X rays into a large folder that had Angel’s name at the top. The dispensary shook and trembled as two Apache helicopter gunships began powering up for takeoff. The whole Black Jaguar operation was hidden in a cave complex within a mountain fifty miles from the archeological wonder Machu Picchu, and the picturesque tourist town of Agua Caliente. The alarm had rung earlier, which meant the two pilot crews on duty would be intercepting a drug shipment flight somewhere near Peru’s border with Bolivia.
“I’m going to save the squadron from my bad mood,” Angel said once the trembling had subsided. “I’ll bet I get written up for a commendation on it.”
“Very funny, Angel,” Elizabeth said, rummaging in another cabinet. “Even the Angel of Death looks like death warmed over,” she continued, casting a grin at her faithful assistant, a paramedic with the Peruvian army. Angel held her left arm guardedly against her body, her right hand cradling it. “Sorry, bad pun. I couldn’t help myself,” Elizabeth murmured sympathetically as she filled a syringe with the pain-relieving drug she knew Angel needed.
“I’m no crybaby, Doc, not even at a time like this. I’m one hundred percent Incan Indian,” she muttered defiantly. Her ancestors were known for their ability to handle pain.
Though she tried to rise to the occasion, Angel didn’t have her usual spunk and feistiness, Elizabeth realized as she flicked her finger against the syringe and approached her colleague. “Hey, you’re in a lotta pain. It shows.”
Angel eyed Elizabeth, the only physician on staff at BJS. They’d been teamed up together nearly three and a half years and worked like a well-oiled machine. “Dude, I never knew an inflamed tendon could make me throw up and then pass out.”
“Hmm, well, pain can do those things to you. You just lifted one heavy box of supplies too many from that Blackhawk helicopter, and did your tendon in.” She moved to Angel’s bared left shoulder. Elizabeth had had to cut away the patient’s T-shirt to examine her injury earlier, when one of the crew had brought Angel in on a gurney, passed out.
“This is so humiliating….” Angel watched as Elizabeth lifted the needle in her direction. “What are you gonna do? Put the needle right into that inflamed tendon? Am I gonna pass out from pain again?”
Cupping her shoulder gently, Elizabeth murmured, “Relax. I’m the best shot-giver on the face of the earth. This won’t hurt, I promise….”
Angel sucked in a breath and shut her eyes tightly. She barely felt the prick of the needle. And just as Elizabeth had promised, there was no pain.
“There,” her friend murmured, pleased with her efforts as she gently swabbed the area with a cotton ball drenched in alcohol. “All over.”
“And relief from this gutting pain is right around the corner, right, Doc?” Angel asked weakly.
“Yep.” Dropping the syringe into the designated wastebasket, Elizabeth pulled off her latex gloves and dropped them in there as well.
“What does this mean? How long am I gonna be laid up and useless?”
“Well, you’ve really injured that tendon, but by resting your shoulder and not lifting heavy items and limiting your mobility, I think in four to six weeks you’ll be back in the saddle again.”
Eyes widening, Angel gasped. “What? Four weeks?”
“I said four to six weeks.” Elizabeth turned to her and studied her dark brown eyes, which were filled with worry. She handed Angel another dark green T-shirt and helped her get it on. “Four would be minimum. And even if it is completely healed in that time, you’re looking at occupational therapy exercises to regain and support the muscles around that tendon. You also—” she patted Angel’s other shoulder gently “—need to learn your weight-lifting limits. And how to lift in order to never have this happen again. Next time—” she held Angel’s mutinous stare “—it may mean surgery or partial loss of mobility in your arm. Now, that’s enough of a death sentence that it should make even you—the Peruvian superwoman—think about the consequences. And I know that look, Angel. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’re going to heal up in a jiffy and be back at work in a week. It isn’t gonna happen, so get over it and roll with this one—the right way.”
“B-but…what about you? I’m the only paramedic at BJS. You need me, Doc. You can’t get along without me. What are you gonna do? You can’t handle this place by yourself, and I can’t be a one-armed paramedic. What if one of our Apaches gets fired on by a Kamov Black Shark drug helo, and pilots get wounded? You’re gonna need my help.”
“I know….”
Opening her good hand, desperation in her tone, Angel added, “You gotta get a stand-in—a temporary paramedic—up here.”
“I know.”
Morosely, Angel looked around the quiet dispensary. The aluminum Quonset hut sat at the very back of the huge lava cave that housed the entire black ops base. “Dude, this sucks.”
“You said it, Angel.” Elizabeth gave her a slight smile. “Listen, I’m authorizing you four weeks of sick leave. I want you to go back to the barracks and rest. Put a hot pack on that shoulder from time to time and alternate it with an ice pack. Rest, sleep, drink plenty of water, and leave that shoulder alone. Don’t pick up anything with that arm, you hear?”
Glumly, Angel looked around. Already the pain was beginning to ease, and she was grateful. “Yeah…I hear you, Doc. No sling, right?”
“No, not at this time. Just be careful how you move it around, is all. But if you reinjure it, Angel, I’ll have to put one on you.”
“That’s good news.” Angel brightened. “At least I’ll save what’s left of my Inca pride.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Get outta here.”
Carefully sliding off the gurney, Angel continued cradling her bad arm against her body; it was the only position that felt comfortable right now. Pushing open the dispensary door with the toe of her black GI boot, she headed down the hall, then left the metal structure. Looking up, she saw bright shafts of sunlight flickering through the Eye, a large hole in the lava wall that protected the huge landing area and the rest of the cave. It was 1000. The day was young. And she was screwed. Glaring toward the Blackhawk helicopter, where she’d injured herself unloading supplies, she saw that all the boxes were stacked on a pallet on an electric golf cart, ready for distribution. Who was going to unpack all the medical supplies that would be dropped off? The doctor was up to her hocks in work. And Angel was useless to her now with only one good hand available.
Frowning, she ruffled her short black hair, then pulled her soft green army cap from the back pocket of the jungle-green-and-brown camouflage pants she wore. Settling the cover on her head and positioning the bill so it protected her eyes from the sudden bright light cascading into the cave, she headed for the headquarters building, which sat off to one side. She was going to talk to their commanding officer, Major Maya Stevenson.
The knock on her open door made Maya lift her head from the relentless paperwork that encircled her like a wagon train on her green, army-issue metal desk.
“Enter,” she called, wondering who it was. When she saw the Angel of Death, Maya frowned. Angel had earned that name from her legendary ability to cheat death by rescuing people from the door of it.
“Ma’am? May I have a moment of your time? I know you’re busy,” Angel said in a rush as she came to attention in front of the major’s desk. She saluted carefully, keeping her left side immobile.
Maya returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Angel replied, automatically cradling her left arm.
“I heard what happened.”
“Already?”
Lips twitching, Maya sat back. “You know how word gets around here, Angel. Telepathically.”
Laughing a little, though it hurt to do even that, Angel nodded. “I guess one of the crew told you?”
“Yeah.” Maya rose and came around the desk. She pulled one of the green metal chairs from a corner and brought it over. “Sit down, Angel. You look like death warmed over.”
Touched by her C.O.’s care, Angel sat down. “You’re the second person to use those exact words. Thank you, ma’am.”
Maya grinned wryly. “How’s the pain level?” she asked as she sauntered back to her desk and sat down.
Angel gestured awkwardly to her injured shoulder. “It’s getting better by the moment. Doc gave me a shot of an anti-inflammatory into the tendon.”
“Good. I once ruptured a tendon here—” Maya pointed to her left shoulder “—when I was a young girl. I was out climbing a tree, thinking I was Tarzan. Only my arms weren’t very long and the branch I was swinging to was too much of a stretch….”
“Ouch. So you know what this feels like?”
Wryly, Maya said, “Yeah, I do.”
Angel smiled. She always felt better when she was around Maya. The major was a woman steeped in mystery and mysticism. She was the reason the Black Jaguar Squadron even existed. Her black, shoulder-length hair shone beneath the fluorescent lights, curling slightly on her proud shoulders. Like all her pilots, Maya wore a black flight uniform that had no insignias, except for one—the Black Jaguar Squadron patch, sewn on the left upper arm.
Reaching toward one of the piles of paperwork, Maya said, “I think we might have an answer for this predicament, however. A real godsend.”
“Oh?”
“You’re here because you’re worried the doc will need help you can’t provide, right?”
Angel never got used to her C.O.’s uncanny ability to seemingly read her mind. As a Quero Indian, steeped in the traditions of her Incan ancestors, Angel understood how energy could be used in many inexplicable ways. Telepathy, as far as she was concerned, was energy sent from one person’s brain to another, much like a telephone call without the cord between them. She had come to expect it from Maya.
“Er…yes, ma’am….”
With a brief smile, Maya dangled a file in front of her.
“I think our collective prayers have been answered in a highly synchronistic development. Take a look at this file for a moment while I fill you in.” Maya handed it across the desk. “I just got this request last week, as a matter of fact.” Leaning back in her creaky chair, she laced her long fingers across her belly. “As you know by now, our little black ops down here, which was the laughingstock of the army when it began, has now become the darling of it. Amazing what time, diligence of effort and a fifty percent reduction of drug flights out of Peru will do to make the military look kindly upon us.”
Angel nodded. “Yes, ma’am, we were just a renegade bunch of women when you created this operation, making that vision of yours a reality.” Curious, she settled the file on her lap and opened it. There was a letter on the front page, a request.
“Well,” Maya murmured humorously, “the U.S. Army is begging us to allow more of their men to come down here and train with us, in many capacities. They want their best pilots to learn from ours. Our flight crews refuel and rearm Apaches faster and better than anyone they’ve got up there in the U.S.A. I have crew specialists wanting to work with us and see how we do what we do. And—” she smiled at Angel “—now even Special Forces are sticking their nose into our black ops.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, that letter, which I want you to read, is from the head of Special Forces, General Rutherford. He wants a Sergeant Burke Gifford, an A team paramedic teacher, to come down here and train with you.”
Angel’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes. Read on.” Maya waved her hand at the file resting on Angel’s lap.
Angel rapidly scanned the official-looking letter, which had been penned by the general. It was basically asking that Gifford be allowed to work with the paramedic at BJS in order to understand unique aspects and uses of their medical model, and how it might be utilized in other places of combat, black ops or not. Brows bunching, Angel read the last paragraph. “This is too much….” she murmured.
Maya chuckled. “Yeah, ain’t it?”
Looking up, Angel said, “This general knows of me. He actually refers to me as the Angel of Death.”
“Your legend precedes you, Paredes.”
Maya’s dry wit wasn’t lost on her. Angel saw the spark of humor in her C.O.’s eyes.
“What I find interesting is that some of the little extracurricular activities you engage in, the tricks you employ as a Quero Indian, trained in your Incan traditions, is getting their attention.”
Angel gulped. She’d always sensed that Maya knew about her mystical background, but it wasn’t ever discussed, at least not openly as they were doing now. Rather, Maya simply accepted it as a part of her, just as Maya had her own mystical traditions.
“Er…ma’am…”
“You’re in a pickle, Paredes.” Maya chuckled indulgently, watching the twenty-eight-year-old paramedic sit there and blush. Angel had copper-colored skin, thick, short black hair and very large, wise-looking dark brown eyes. Like most Quero people, she was short and stocky and strong. Few knew the inner workings of the Quero, the royal bloodline of the Incas of the past. But Maya did. Knew them well.
“Your skill has gained the attention of a general. Now,” Maya drawled, “if it was the sergeant putting in this request, I could blow him off and circular file it. As it is, your reputation for saving lives when the person shoulda croaked has reached General Rutherford’s ears.”
Gulping again, Angel said, “And you can’t blow off a general. Right?”
“Bang on, Paredes. You’re reading this one correctly.”
“But,” Angel sputtered, tapping the letter repeatedly with her index finger, “I can’t teach them what I know! First of all, this guy—”
“Sergeant Gifford?”
“Yeah…him. Well, he wouldn’t believe it, anyway. He’s a paramedic. Undoubtedly dyed-in-the-wool and tied to the traditional Western medicine model.”
Shrugging eloquently, Maya said, “The dude has some pull if he can get a general to write this proposal and request for him. He’s the head medical instructor for all of Special Forces training. So he’s got something going for him.”
Angel snorted softly. “Yeah, it’s called the curiosity of a cat, ma’am. That’s all.”
“There’s a photo of him on the next page. Take a look.”
Unsettled, Angel scowled and lifted the letter, finding a colored photo beneath. The man’s face was square, his jaw hard and set. His gray eyes reminded Angel of a cat’s, and for some reason that bothered her or perhaps drew her. She instantly rejected the latter possibility. Gifford was dressed in his Class A dark green army uniform, the red beret worn by Special Forces members in place on his dark brown hair. She saw the weathered lines at the corners of his eyes, indicating he spent a lot of time out-of-doors. His mouth was thinned and unsmiling. Of course, this was an official army photo, in which no one smiled. Still, she dug into the man’s face, studying his craggy features, with her intuition open.
Gifford was not a pretty boy. She saw a scar above the dark, thick slash of his right eyebrow. His nose, strong and dominating, reminded her of a condor’s beak. It had obviously been broken in the past. The merciless look in his light gray eyes, those black pupils huge and staring back at her, undid her for a moment.
“This dude don’t take no prisoners, does he?”
Chuckling, Maya said, “Doesn’t look like it on the surface.”
“He’s got a face like the Andes.”
“Yeah, all lava and granite. Tough.”
“I don’t see compassion in him,” Angel said, feeling energy drain from her. “I’m looking for something face-saving in this guy. I don’t see it.”
“I think he hides behind that mask in the photo,” Maya said gently. “Don’t panic on me, Paredes. It would be the first time I’ve seen you hit that button.”
Lifting her head, Angel tried to smile. “Sorry, ma’am. I am rattled.”
“Look at it this way,” Maya counseled with a twisted smile. “You need help right now because of your injury. Gifford asked for six weeks, to tail you around to see what you do and how you do it as a paramedic for BJS. Let him be your hands while you train him in to help the doctor. He can be like a puppy following at your heels.”
“What about my, er…other skills, ma’am? I don’t have to show him that, do I?”
“No. Not unless you think it’s right. We’d at least have a pair of hands here to help us while you recover. He’s a trained paramedic. He can stand in for you, Angel, and help Elizabeth. Overall, it’s a good fit for our present predicament.”
Mouth thinning, Angel took another look at Gifford’s stiff, almost defiant expression. The man was like a hungry raptor ready to leap out of the photograph and grab her. Strangely, she felt her heart respond. She was confused. Gifford’s face was not forgiving in any way. He was a professional soldier and there was absolutely no softness in him.
“He doesn’t look like he’s got a drop of sensitivity in him,” she moaned. “The women aren’t gonna like that. We get along better with more responsive types.”
“Well,” Maya said, “if Gifford tries to strong-arm anyone here, I think they’ll straighten him out pronto, don’t you?”
Angel saw her C.O. grinning like a jaguar, her eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s true, we don’t take guff from anyone—especially men.”
“Bang on, Paredes. You’re the one who’s gonna be saddled with him, and so you’re the one whose gonna take it on the chin, so to speak. You’re tough, though, and my bet’s on you to stop this guy in his tracks should he decide that just because you’re a woman—and petite—he can ignore you or run over you.”
Snorting, Angel growled, “He’d better not try.”
“Yeah.” Maya chortled softly. “Or he’ll be asking for a transfer sooner rather than later. Try to be a bit kind to him? We need him around for at least four to six weeks, until you climb back into the saddle, okay?”
Feeling a little better, Angel closed the folder, stood up and handed it back. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best.”
“Go tell the doctor what’s comin’ down, will you? And tell her if she has any other questions, to come see me.”
“I will. I think she’ll be relieved.”
“I’m sure I’ll hear a whoop and holler from that direction. Gifford’s good at what he does, so he’ll be able to fill your shoes, medically speaking, up to a point.” Maya flashed her glittering, pantherlike smile. “But he’s not the Angel of Death. That’s why I need you to shepherd him around, use his skills, while you get yourself back on your feet ASAP. Okay?”
Heartened by her C.O.’s belief in her, Angel came to attention. “Yes, ma’am. Music to my ears.”
“Get out of here, Paredes. Go get some rest and take care of that shoulder like the doc ordered.”
Angel nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I will, now that we’ve got some help coming our way. I was just worried for the doctor. She’s really busy.”
“I know.”
Of course she would know, Angel thought as she saluted.
“Dismissed, Sergeant. Thanks for dropping by. And try to be kind to Gifford the first couple of days. I’m sure he’s not used to a nearly all-women squadron.”
Chapter Two
Where in the hell am I being sent? It was a question Sergeant Burke Gifford asked himself many times as the Bell helicopter moved toward the narrow hole in the lava wall that would allow them entrance to the Black Jaguar Base in the jungle mountains of Peru. He was the only passenger, and had been picked up at the Cuzco airport along with a hefty load of supplies, which were anchored all around him by nylon netting.
It was early morning, the mists thick and swirling as the chopper hovered, slowly approaching the gaping hole in the black lava wall. Looking between the two front seats, occupied by women pilots, Burke glimpsed the “Eye,” as they called it, for the first time.
Automatically, he tensed, reaching for the nylon netting around him and gripping it hard. The hole looked too small for the Bell helo to pass through. Yet as Burke sucked in a sudden breath and held it, the pilot maneuvered through it deftly as if it was nothing. Burke stared at the black rock wall as the helo moved through, noting how it glistened wetly from the mist—that’s how close they’d come to it.
It was only when the chopper began to land on a rough slab of black lava inside the cave that Burke let out that breath of air. He had on a set of headphones, so he was privy to the chatter between the pilots and the ground crew. From their conversations, he could tell they weren’t at all concerned about flying through that hole like he was. Marveling at the size of the cave, he felt his eyes widen even more as he looked around and grasped the enormity of this operation. What an incredible place! His respect for the base, and the people who ran it, mushroomed.
“Okay, Sergeant Gifford, you can breathe now,” the pilot said with a chuckle.
Gifford managed a sick smile. “Thanks, Chief Mabrey,” he said to the woman they called “Snake,” as she twisted around to look at him with a huge grin.
“Our pleasure, Sergeant. I warned you that the Eye would get your attention.”
“It did, ma’am. My undivided attention.”
