Chapter Two

      Not two minutes after the cops had left her alone, Trina knew what she to do.

      Call her brother. Three years older than her, Joseph had never let her down, any more than she would him if he ever needed her. He’d be mad if she didn’t turn to him.

      Unfortunately, he’d take at least a day to reach her, but she and Chloe could surely stay with the Doughtens that long. Trina went out to check on Chloe, but the nurse smiled and rocked gently. “If you need to do anything else, she’s fine,” she whispered.

      “Then I’ll make a call,” she said gratefully, and returned to her cubicle.

      Her brother’s phone rang once, twice, three times. It wouldn’t be the middle of the night for him, or even the crack of dawn. Georgia was three hours ahead, which made it...eight o’clock there.

      “Trina?” he said sharply.

      She started to cry. She hadn’t yet but couldn’t seem to help herself now. Lifting the hem of the faded blue scrub top to wipe damp cheeks, she said, “Joseph? My house burned down.”

      “What? How?”

      “It was—” She had to breathe deeply to be able to finish. “Arson. It was arson.”

      He swore. “Do the cops think it’s random? There’s no reason you’d be a target, is there?”

      She took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

      “Tell me,” Joseph demanded.

      The story didn’t take all that long, after all. He had already known that she was now a foster mom, although she hadn’t explained the background. Now she did.

      At the end, she said tentatively, “I don’t know what to do. I was hoping...” She hesitated.

      “I’d come?”

      The tension she heard told her the answer would be no.

      “You know I want to be on the next flight to the West Coast. But I don’t see how I can. We’re wheels up tonight, Trina.”

      He was the one who’d shortened her name, to their parents’ frustration. They’d been determined she would be Katrina, but ultimately even they had started dropping the first syllable.

      She could call them...but she couldn’t put them in danger, either. Joseph... Joseph was different. He could handle any threat.

      “I’ll wire you some money,” her brother said.

      “Thanks, but... I have money. I just have to get some ID so I can claim it.”

      “Okay.” He was silent long enough that she was about to open her mouth when he said in a distracted way, “I’m thinking. I can ask for an emergency leave.”

      “You’d have said that in the first place if it was so easy.”

      “Yeah, it’s not. We’ve been training and studying intel on this op for the last month. The major won’t be happy.”

      He wasn’t supposed to have told her as much as he had. Her heart sank, but she knew what she had to say. “Then...then I’ll think of something else. I could hire a bodyguard.” From Bodyguards ’R Us? Feeling semihysterical, she wondered whether that was a subject heading in the Yellow Pages. Craigslist? The bulletin board at the hardware store that was covered with business cards? How was someone as inexperienced as she supposed to judge the competency of some beefy guy who claimed he could protect her?

      That’s why she’d turned to her brother. She knew he could.

      “Wait,” he said, relief in his voice. “I’m not using my head. One of my buddies is half an hour or less from you. I’d have tried to hook you two up, except...we’re not good marriage prospects.”

      Despite the fact that she was desperate and in pain, Trina rolled her eyes. “I can find my own dates, thank you.” Bodyguards, not so much. “Why is this guy in rural Oregon instead of at Fort Benning?” Or in some war-torn part of the world?

      “IED.” So casual. “Had his stays in the hospital and rehab, but he still needs some time to come back all the way. He and another friend of mine bought a ranch out there in Oregon. I think Boyd was from the area.”

      “They bought a ranch.”

      “Yeah, thinking of the future. You know? At best, we’ll all age out.”

      She shuddered. Usually, she didn’t know when Joseph dropped from the radar, which was fortunate. She worried enough as it was. He’d had regular deployments, but more often conducted raids in hostile territory, the kind of place where Americans were not welcome. She knew he’d been involved in international hostage rescues.

      Perfect training for protecting her and Chloe, Trina couldn’t help thinking. “So, do you have this Boyd’s phone number?”

      “No, this guy’s name is Gabe. Gabe Decker. Boyd retired a couple of years ago. He might be getting soft. Gabe is deadly.”

      “But if he’s injured...”

      “He’s on his feet. Even riding, he said last time we talked. Listen, I’ll call him. Where are you?”

      She explained that she was still at the hospital, but her practice partner was taking her home temporarily. She told him the address.

      “I want you in hiding now,” Joseph said, with the cold certainty of a man to whom her current troubles were everyday. “Keep your phone on, but don’t be surprised if he just shows up. Be ready to go.”

      Okay. But wasn’t that what she wanted? Well, yes, but this Gabe Decker was a stranger. Was she willing to trust him? Follow his orders, if he was anywhere near as dictatorial as Joseph could be?

      Her inner debate lasted about ten seconds. Because, really, what other option did she have?

      The police.

      All she had to do was picture Chloe’s sweet face, her freckled nose natural with her red-gold hair. No, Trina didn’t trust the detectives, one of whom must have a big mouth or been careless in some other way with dangerous information.

      “I’ll be expecting him,” she said, and offered the Doughtens’ address. Only after she’d let him go did she wish she’d thought to ask what this Gabe Decker looked like.

      * * *

      GABE’S PLEASURE AT seeing his friend’s number on the screen of his phone took a nosedive as soon as he heard what Joseph wanted. Sticking him in close quarters with a clingy woman and whiny kid, right when he felt especially unsociable. Even so, he didn’t hesitate.

      “Anything,” he said, which was the only possible answer. “Tell me what you know.”

      Listening, he remained lying on his back on the weight bench where he’d been working out.

      Hearing that the sister was a psychologist didn’t make him want to break out in song and dance. He’d had his fill of social workers and counselors both at the hospital and rehab facility. They were positive he had to be suffering from PTSD. Guilt because a teammate had died in the same explosion. Talking about it was the answer. Reliving the horrific moments over and over being so helpful to his mental health. When he balked, that had to mean he was refusing to acknowledge his emotional response to his own traumatic injury as well as Raul’s spectacular death. No chance he just didn’t need to talk about it, because this wasn’t the first time he’d been injured