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      JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984 and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organisation. Her first novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.

      Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestselling list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is a popular speaker at writing organisations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.

      She currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star state. You may write to Joanna at PO Box 265, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.

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      I’d like to offer my gratitude to the brave military men and women who sacrifice so much to protect our freedom. And a hug and heartfelt thanks to the people who love them.

      Chapter One

      “Welcome home, cowboy!”

      Cutter Martin stopped just inside the door and waited for his pupils to adjust from the bright sunshine to the dim lighting of the bar and grill. Even after they had, it took a few minutes for him to spot the lean male frame propped on the barstool a few yards away.

      Tom Porter. He hadn’t seen the guy in years. Would have been fine with Cutter if he’d gone a few more. The mood he was in right now was not suitable for company, especially not Tom’s. He waved anyway and made his way to the nearly empty bar.

      “Not quite home,” Cutter said, sliding onto the barstool next to Tom, “but close.”

      “Houston’s a hell of a lot nearer to Dobbin than Afghanistan was.”

      “When you put it that way.” Odd thing was Dobbin, Texas didn’t seem like home anymore, either. There had been nights of sleeping on the hard ground in insect-infested forests that made the Double M Ranch loom like heaven in the back of his mind.

      Now he was back in the States and the ranch was just wide open spaces. He figured he’d gone too deep into enemy territory and the military lifestyle to go back to his ranching roots. Not that he’d ever been much of a rancher. It was bronc riding on the rodeo circuit that had driven him in his younger days.

      The bartender wiped a spot of moisture from the counter in front of Cutter and slapped down a paper napkin. “What can I get you?”

      “Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.”

      “I saw your picture in the Houston Chronicle last month,” Tom said. “I been meaning to look you up ever since then. That was quite a hero’s welcome you got.”

      “Yeah.” Cutter nodded and looked away, hoping that would end the hero talk. He hadn’t been any more a hero than every other frogman he’d served with.

      Unfortunately, the bartender must have overheard Tom’s remark. He paused as he served Cutter’s drink. “Say, you’re that Navy SEAL fellow, aren’t you? The one who personally killed twelve of the enemy after you and your buddies were ambushed.”

      “So they told me. I wasn’t counting at the time.”

      “Cool, man. I thought about becoming a Navy SEAL. My girlfriend didn’t like the idea of my getting shot at, though.”

      Cutter studied the guy. Early twenties, hair a little too long, tattoos all over his arms like blotchy skin. Big enough, but no muscular definition. Cutter wondered if he’d last a day in BUD/S. Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training was twenty-six weeks of grueling preparation for what lay ahead for the few who saw it through.

      “You must be glad to be home,” the bartender continued. “Bet it was even worth getting shot in the leg to get out of the war zone.”

      As if on cue, Cutter’s left thigh started to throb and his irritation level climbed. The bartender wasn’t the first to assume he must have hated his time in the service. They were dead wrong. It was trying to adjust to life without the rugged edges that was taking the fight out of him. He didn’t seem to fit in civilian life half as well as he’d fit in with his SEAL team.

      He picked up his drink and downed half of it before setting the glass back on the table. Fortunately, by that time another customer had snagged the bartender’s attention. Now he only had Tom to contend with.

      Tom grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl near him,