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floundering, trying to find the strength he’d always had to look the worst in the eye and just move along; but for some reason, when he needed it most, it had abandoned him. And now all he was left with was this infuriating female acting as though all he neededwere a crash course in Lamaze and he’d somehow be able to give birth to the control and focus he needed.
    “Jackson!”
    She hit him. Not so Landon could see, but a covert knee just shy of his crotch, forcing aeons of male instinct to jerk back protectively and suck in a much-needed breath.
    The wash of oxygen flooded his blood and his brain, even as he grabbed hold of Marissa and crashed her back into the door, the tinny sound of blinds crackling giving away just how old this place was that it still had aluminum blinds. That small detail crystallizing in a maelstrom of grief seemed to anchor him. Not permanently. Not even strongly. Just enough to keep him from throttling a gorgeous redheaded doctor who always smelled too delicious for her own damn good and always seemed one step smarter than he was at any given moment. Jackson let go of her long before Landon could swoop in and play jarhead protector. He took another breath as he stared at her composed features, resenting her for how much more centered each draw for oxygen was making him feel.
    “Low blow, Doc,” he said in a dark voice paced to keep his emotions in check. “I doubt they taught you that in touchy-feely doctor school.” He leaned in just a touch, the muscle at his jaw twitching as he gritted his teeth. “How about you take me to identify my sister’s body and we’ll call it even?”

CHAPTER THREE

    Docia would’ve woken up with a gasp, but the tube jammed down her windpipe had other ideas. She gagged, wanted to vomit, flailed about weakly, looking for a way to grab for breath. She also had an overwhelming need to pee.
    “Docia!”
    There was the sound of something wet splashing on the floor and then suddenly she was looking into Jackson’s face, his pallor far too pale and the stress on his features instantly apparent. She couldn’t focus on those details too much, however, because she was suffocating to death.
    There was a quick swarm of people over her, nurses and a doctor by the look of their clothes, the reassuring things they said, and the hurried explanations meant to calm her. But the only thing she could find of comfort in the room was Jackson’s familiar face. They had tried to shove him into the corridor, but he had fought to remain, and apparently he was the least of their worries, so they ignored him in order to focus on her.
    Finally that horrific tube was yanked out of her throat, leaving her to gag and gasp for breath, the act of coughing sending furious fire burning through her sorely abused lungs. Some moron kept telling her to breathe, asif that were some kind of option. As if the idea had never occurred to her.
    She heard Jackson laugh in a burst of incredulity and then realized she’d managed to choke out something like “Go fuck yourself” to the nurse or whoever kept yammering at her.
    Though it was surprisingly satisfying, she shocked herself, saying it aloud like that instead of keeping it in her head as she usually did. If not for the need for air, she might have slapped a hand over her mouth in dire feminine despair. But Jackson’s amusement and the desired result of shutting the nurse up stayed her from having too much of a guilty conscience.
    Finally she was breathing rather than gagging for every breath. Apparently satisfactorily enough to allow the medical personnel to back off. Then Jackson was on her like white on rice, hugging her as gingerly and as tightly as he could all at once.
    “Oh, my God, Sissy, you just about aged me fifty years,” he rasped against her ear as if he were sharing the most horrible of secrets. His desperation was clear and cold, his relief warm and touching. If she’d had any doubt about her brother’s love for her, it was