Shane sighed, watching Charlie. He’d always liked her, from the moment they met—probably . . . no, way more than he should. He had told her the truth; he knew her well enough now to know when something was really bothering her. And something was definitely bothering her. That perpetual frown and that almost haunted look in her eyes proved it.

“Talk to me, Charlie. We’re partners, right?”

She glanced at him and grimaced. “Of course we’re partners, Shane, but there’s just some things—”

“Actually, there aren’t. I know if I had a problem with something or difficulty working something out, I could talk to you about it, right?” She nodded. “I need you to feel the same way about me. You don’t have to worry about me blabbing anything, or judging, or criticizing, or . . . well, anything negative.”

She said nothing and he shifted position to glance out the windshield as a car passed, shaking the rig with its blast of air and throwing up dust that spattered against the windshield. He turned back to Charlie. “You can rely on me. Really. So what’s going on? Why did that nutjob have such an effect on you? Why all teary-eyed?”

“He’s not a nutjob!”

Her face reddened with emotion, startling him. That kind of response was not triggered merely by his not-so-kind assessment of their patient. That came from somewhere deeper. Could she possibly be embarrassed or so hesitant to share her feelings with him? She glanced down at her hands, idly picking at a hangnail. Finally, she turned and looked at him.

“That nutjob back there reminds me of my brother.” He frowned as she turned to look at him with a lame smile and a shrug. “Today’s his birthday.”

“Oh? How old is he?”

“Jason is perpetually twenty-three years old.” Before he could question her about that, she continued with another shrug. “Anyway, Cody reminds me of my brother, Jason.”

Shane frowned. Why had he never heard anything about a brother? “How so?”

She didn’t reply, but he wasn’t going to let that one go. He shouldn’t have called their patient a nutjob, but he was a repeat offender, so to speak. He tried to talk it out. “Cody is bent on self-destruction. If he really wanted to kill himself, he would have already done it.” He paused, thinking of a way he could possibly ask the question without appearing even more like an asshole. “Is that what you mean, Charlie? Are you telling me that your brother is suicidal?”

God, he hoped that wasn’t so. The thought of Charlie having to deal with that kind of emotional trauma . . .

“No, Shane, my little brother isn’t suicidal. He’s dead.”

She said it so matter of factly, without any emotion behind it, that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. His heart skipped a beat. Dead? Why hadn’t she ever told him about a younger brother?

“Charlie, I’m sorry . . . did he . . . did he kill himself?” he asked gently. She didn’t look at him but kept staring at the hands in her lap, her eyes glazed with tears. She lifted her head, blinked back the tears, and then offered a small shake of her head, staring out the windshield.

“No, he didn’t kill himself, Shane. He died. In Iraq.”

Oh, God. Her brother was military. He—

“I grew up in a military family. My grandfather served in the second world war, my dad in Vietnam, and my younger brother in Iraq.” She turned to him. “He was in a Humvee and his truck rolled over an IED. He didn’t die right away, though.” Her voice grew softer. “It ripped most of his arm off and caused massive internal injuries. They managed to get him to an aid station, but he was too badly wounded . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The words sounded so trite. But he meant them. His heart ached for her.

“A couple of his buddies came to see me on leave after he was shipped home in that casket”—she turned to him with a frown—“Shane, they were different. I had known those guys for years. But they were different.”

He didn’t have to wonder. “PTSD.”

She nodded. “Ever since then, I’ve had a particularly soft spot for vets, especially those dealing with PTSD. Most of them don’t get help for it, you know. Even though the military says they have treatment programs, and they won’t be stigmatized or penalized or thought of any differently, the stigma is still there—hidden well and kept underneath the surface, but it’s there. Most of them are too proud to ask for help, thinking that they can deal with it on their own. Most of them don’t want their buddies to know. They’re supposed to protect each other. It’s hard on them . . .”

“When they get back?” he asked. She nodded. “My cousin is in Afghanistan now,” he said. “I haven’t seen him for a year, but . . . I hope he comes through okay. Inside and out.”

“I hope so, too.”

She heaved another heavy sigh. “Some scars aren’t visible. Just so you know.”

“Like Cody?”

“Like Cody,” she said, nodding.

He said nothing for several moments, drawn to her even more than before and feeling even worse for calling Cody a nutjob. In their line of work, you had to let off steam or you’d explode, but that had been a dick move. He’d never been in the military, never been exposed to combat, but he’d been a paramedic long enough to see more than his share of trauma. He’d dealt with the aftermath of losing patients himself and witnessed the devastation that such loss caused their families, their loved ones, and the impact that it had on himself.

“I’m sorry I called Cody that,” he said. “And thank you for telling me, helping me to understand what you’re going through.”

She nodded, her jaw working, and then she turned to look out the passenger-side window again, abruptly brushing her fingers over her cheeks. Refusing to let him see her tears or lingering pain. He wanted to comfort her, to somehow take the pain away, but no hug, no words of encouragement, and no trite words of sympathy could take that kind of pain away.

Instead, he turned back in his seat, put the vehicle into drive, and after glancing through the side mirror, pulled back onto the highway. Maybe a dose of normalcy was what she needed. “Like I said, some of us are going out for a drink after work. Come with me.”

She seemed to think about it for a minute and then shrugged. “Maybe, but just for a little while.”

He hid his surprise that she had agreed. “It’s just going to be a few of us,” he said. “Dean, Mason, maybe Matt, and Jeremy.”

She nodded. They were all a good bunch of guys and he knew that her reluctance wasn’t because she was the only female attached to the squad. Charlie was one of the best EMTs he’d ever worked with, capable and confident. She wasn’t shy, and certainly not standoffish, but she didn’t go out of her way to socialize much. Now maybe he had an indication of why. Losing a brother like that, it must be awful.

When they arrived back at the firehouse, they both busied themselves: cleaning the rig, restocking supplies. It all had to be done before shift change. Charlie was quiet, but she met his gaze when he caught her attention and even managed a few smiles. He really was sorry that he’d brought up some painful emotions for her. Going out for drinks wouldn’t fix it, but he hoped it might be the first step.