He could do this.
Mack stood on the sidewalk in front of the church, his heart a fist in his chest, not sure why the sight of the building—just a nondescript log structure with a bell tower and a cross on the roof—caused his breath to turn to fire in his lungs.
Just a church.
Certainly he’d been to church before.
“You comin’, Mack?” Raven stopped a few feet away from him, turning and squinting in the sunlight. She wore a jean skirt, a T-shirt, her boots, and a thin jacket. The wind caught her hair, drawing it across her face. She drew her hair back and grinned at him, her eyes warm.
This is what normal people did. Went to church. Hopefully with a cute girl.
And besides, Jethro had invited him. It seemed like the polite thing for a houseguest to do.
He could do this. This could work. He could reinvent himself and become Mack Jones.
He liked Mack. Mack was a good builder—he hadn’t realized that he had building chops, but as he’d talked through the renovations with a local contractor Jethro had hired, he understood all the steps—from the framing to the electrical—as if he’d heard it before.
So maybe he’d been a carpenter.
Like Jesus.
The thought lifted his mouth and gave him the gusto to take Raven’s outstretched hand and follow her into the building.
He let it go at the top of the stairs because he was already giving her way too many wrong signals.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get past her age. Or the fact that…well, shoot.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the other girl.
The one who kept showing up at the building site, offering to help.
Sydney. With the dark brown hair and blue eyes and yeah, there was clearly nothing wrong with him. The red-blooded male inside him was still functioning.
Mack didn’t know why—he liked Raven well enough. She was sweet and had made him a part of this town, calling him her hero and introducing him to everyone she knew.
He’d practically been MVP at yesterday’s softball practice. And he didn’t flinch once when the bat cracked the ball.
See, he was practically a new man.
And maybe if he could get Sydney out of his head, there might be room for Raven.
Problem was, after five days, Sydney had even found his dreams.
She was there, with him on the train. Speaking to him in that foreign language. Looking at him with those blue eyes as if he could save the world.
And heaven help him, in the dream he thought so too.
Last night, when he’d fallen, she’d reached out a hand to catch him.
It woke him up, left him feeling as if she’d actually been there, holding on to him, as if the dream wasn’t a nightmare but an honest-to-goodness memory.
Had he killed someone and pushed them off a train? He shuddered with the thought.
See, this was why he needed to get her away from him. The what-ifs were gnawing at him, keeping him from stepping into a life he wanted.
This small town, normal life. A home, a family, a church…
He wanted the safe and ordinary life of Mack Jones.
“Hey, Mack, great to see you. Excellent practice yesterday.” Caleb stood in the doorway of the church sanctuary and shook his hand as he walked in. Jethro had come early for some meeting and now stood way, way down in front, waving.
Oh boy.
Mack followed Raven down the aisle. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, rays of divine light casting into gleaming wooden pews. A carpeted runner ran down the aisle, but the rest of the flooring was hardwood, except for the stage, draped in red carpet, with a plain wooden cross hanging on the back wall behind the altar.
The fist in his chest tightened.
Maybe he’d had a bad experience in church.
Or maybe his inner man, the one who remembered what Mack couldn’t, knew he shouldn’t be here.
He slipped into the pew, and someone behind him tapped his shoulder. He turned. Jimbo, chief of police. “Glad to see you’re sticking around.” He didn’t smile, and Mack wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But he nodded.
Mack sat next to Raven, Jethro on the other side of him, and tried to squelch the urge to bolt.
Especially when Caleb got up on stage and welcomed him, personally, to church. He also welcomed a few other newcomers, asking them to stand.
Mack looked around and for a second froze at the sight of Sydney, seated in the back, being nudged to her feet by the woman next to her.
She was new to town? He’d thought she was a regular church attender.
And that thought added another fist to his gut.
It got weirder when he realized he knew the songs—everybody knew “Amazing Grace,” probably, but when the strains of what Caleb called an “oldie but goodie” flashed on the screen in front, the song practically leapt from his bones.
How deep the Father’s love for us…how vast beyond all measure…that He should give His only Son to make a wretch His treasure.
Mack reached out for the edge of the pew and wrapped his hand around it, his grip whitening as he mouthed the words.
Why should I gain from His reward?…But this I know with all my heart, His wounds have paid my ransom.
And now, crazily, his eyes filled, his heart thundering.
He was losing his mind.
The hymn ended, and his knees nearly gave out as they sat. He stared at Caleb giving announcements, hearing a different voice. No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him…
Of course he was trapped in the middle of this stupid pew, practically in the front row.
Caleb stepped behind the pulpit, his Bible in his grip. “Let’s praise the Lord together that this past week Jethro’s place burned to the ground.”
Mack frowned, glanced at Jethro, who was just grinning at the pastor, nodding.
“We’re so grateful that no one got hurt—thank you, Mack—”
Mack looked away, toward the stained glass window, just in case Caleb decided to look his direction.
“But we are also grateful for the opportunity to suffer. To die and be born again. Sorrow is part of life. It’s a part of living as a person of faith—we will have it. And it can be either from sorrow we bring on ourselves or sorrow others inflict on us—cruelty, injustice, even deliberate evil. The point of suffering is our faith. It either shows you yourself and what you believe…or destroys you.”
And what if nothing remains? Mack’s question from a few days ago returned to him. Maybe he had nothing of faith to begin with.
“Suffering is the key to rebirth,” Caleb said. “In fact, the Bible says in Philippians, ‘I want to know Christ and experience the mighty power that raised him from the dead. I want to suffer with him, sharing in his death, so that one way or another I will experience the resurrection from the dead!’
“Suffering leads to death of ourselves because our only chance of survival is to cling to Jesus. And when we cling to Jesus, we are changed. Reborn. We become who we were meant to be because there is nothing of ourselves left.”
Mack didn’t know when he’d turned back, staring at Caleb, but every muscle in Mack’s body stilled.
“When you have nothing, that is a perfect place for Jesus to fill you with His resurrection power. To be reborn.”
And shoot, now he looked right at Mack. Just a moment, right before he swept his gaze over the rest of the congregation. “Do you have nothing? Do you want to be reborn? Do you want to discover your true self?”
An anvil lay on Mack’s chest.
“Then right now is the day of your rebirth.”
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Mack was shaking. Because he didn’t know who he’d been before. And frankly, maybe he didn’t want to know, ever.
But he did know who he wanted to be now.
Caleb came down from the pulpit. “First Peter 1:3–5 says, ‘We have been born anew to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and to an inheritance which is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you.’ Be reborn into living hope today. Embrace the inheritance of peace and joy and eternity offered to you.”
And shoot, if Mack’s legs didn’t move him out of the pew, past Raven.
Moved him right up to that blood-covered altar. Gave out on him in front of the cross.
And just like that, Mack Jones bent his head and held on to the only thing that made him who he wanted to be.
Please, Jesus. I don’t know who I was, but…I want to be a different man. A man who trusts You. Please forgive me for the darkness I know is in my past…and help me to live as a new man.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Jethro kneeling beside him, his head bent. “Bless this son of Yours, Lord. Thank You for bringing him to us. Help him find his place in Your grace.”
Mack’s jaw tightened.
But the fist in his chest had released, and he lifted his head and took a breath.
A full, undefiled breath.
Free.
Alive.
Anew.
He smiled and found Jethro grinning at him, his eyes shiny. “See, I knew you came to us for a reason.”
Mack got up, and Caleb met him, his hand outstretched, then pulled him tight into a quick hug. “Welcome, brother.”
This felt awkward, but he slapped Caleb’s back before he let him go.
Raven stood in the aisle, beaming at him.
And behind her, farther down at the end of the aisle…Sydney.
Tears streaked down her face, her eyes wide on him.
What—?
The only promise you have to make to me is to not let go of the guy who saved my life.
The voice slammed through him, and he gasped.
She swallowed, nodded as if in finality, turned and practically fled the building.
“Wait!” Mack looked at Raven. “Go home without me—I’ll meet you there.”
Then he strode past them all and headed down the aisle. “Sydney!”
She had worked her way through the crowd in the vestibule and he barely caught sight of her disappearing down the stairs. “Sydney!”
A few heads turned, and he offered a tight apologetic smile as he pushed through the crowd, out into the open.
She was halfway out of the parking lot, fast-walking toward the sidewalk.
He leaped the last step and took off for her.
She glanced over her shoulder, hustled her pace for a second, then she turned and held up her hand. “No—no—” Tears streamed down her face.
What on earth? Because the sight of her crying nearly wrecked him, a strange response that he couldn’t untangle.
She turned and bolted. A flat-out run—and she was wearing Cons and a pair of jeans and had some real speed on her.
Okay, so this was weird.
But he sprinted after her.
And yes, he felt a little like a predator, but he couldn’t suppress the urge to talk to her. Right. Now.
She knew something.
He dodged a bicycler and a display of flowers outside Mystical Pizza and caught up to her just as she hit the Riverwalk Park. “Stop!”
He didn’t want to grab her arm, but she wouldn’t slow down, so, “Please!”
Maybe it was the please, because she whirled and he nearly smacked right into her.
She was still crying, but a fierceness had washed over her face, into her eyes. “What do you want?”
“What do I—you’re the one following me!”
Her mouth opened, and oh no, he was right. She was following him.
“Oh—you know me, don’t you?” And now he did grab her arms, pushing her back into the shadows of a towering oak. “You know me, don’t you?”
Her blue eyes latched on him, her jaw tight. “Do you know me?”
He blinked at her. “This isn’t a game!”
“I know—believe me, I know! But answer the question—Do. You. Know. Me?”
He drew in a breath. Then, slowly, shook his head. Let her go. “No. I think I should, but…I don’t.”
Her mouth tightened into a grim line.
“But you know me.”
She nodded.
“Who am I?”
She wiped her cheeks, almost harshly, met his eyes again. “Do you really want to know?”
The question had the force of a punch right to his sternum. He swallowed. Nodded past the tightness in his chest.
“Your name is York. You’re thirty-two years old. We met in a foreign country, and if I tell you any more, it’ll destroy everything you’ve built here.” She raised her hand, as if she were going to touch his chest, then dropped her hand. “It’ll destroy Mack Jones.” She swallowed. “Do you want that?”
He stared at her.
In the park, people rode bikes, and the wind stirred up the fragrance of the freshly cut grass mixed with the dying leaves, the loamy scent of autumn from the nearby hills. Winter was coming and he’d seen himself maybe buying a little cabin…
“Just tell me…was I a good man?”
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling. Finally, she opened her mouth.
He cut her off. “Don’t bother. You’ve answered my question.”
Then he turned and walked away.
There he went, walking right out of her life.
And she was going to let him go.
RJ watched as York—no, not York. Not anymore. As Mack strode down the street, away from her, his hands clenched at his sides, not looking back.
Not even once.
Do you know me?
Maybe she should have said no, let him live in the fresh start he’d so craved.
The York she knew—and loved—had so many regrets they were slowly consuming him. Grief. Mistakes. Horrible choices.
He’d done wet work for the CIA. Although he hadn’t admitted it outright, she knew it by his personal grief.
And today, he’d let that all go and become a new man.
She wiped her face, then crossed the street to the B and B. A couple other patrons sat at the wicker tables overlooking the river—they’d probably seen the altercation as York had chased her across town. She kept her head down as she walked onto the porch and inside.
Darcy came out of the kitchen just as she hit the stairs. “Did you find the church okay?”
She’d asked Darcy for directions this morning. Not that she’d been entirely sure she would attend, but…
If York didn’t know who he was, then he wouldn’t know that an assassin was after him.
Someone needed to keep York alive.
At least that had been her working justification for sticking around after her panicked phone conversation with Coco four days ago after her first conversation with Raven.
After she’d realized that York was, well, York. Except not York.
When she first considered the fact that the man she loved had forgotten…everything.
“The woman said that he’s staying in town, starting over.”
“Take a breath, RJ,” Coco had said, probably getting up from her bedside vigil of her son. “Start at the beginning.”
“I found him. York. But he calls himself Mack, and he’s…he’s different. So different that I wasn’t even sure it was him, but this woman he works with—actually she said they were dating—”
“Dating? What—?”
“Yes, I know. I don’t know what’s going on, but she said he has a scar under his beard and that the other day he beat up some guy who’d tried to harass Raven—anyway, it’s York. For sure it’s York. But he…he acts like he doesn’t know me.”
She’d been standing in the Riverwalk Park, staring out at the blue water, watching a boat motor past, the wind in her hair, the smells of the nearby pizza store stirring her hunger.
She would have liked to join the group for pizza for dinner—a suggestion by Caleb, the young, handsome pastor. But frankly, her head was buzzing from watching York interact all day like he might be the local handyman or even the owner’s son that…shoot, she had to walk away.
Untangle her mind.
“What do you mean, doesn’t know you?”
“I spoke to him in Russian. I called myself Sydney, just in case he was undercover. Not a blip of recognition. I’m sorry—he’s good, but certainly, if I was somehow blowing his cover, he’d ask me to leave.”
Silence.
“Coco?”
“What if…and I know this sounds crazy, but what if he was so injured in the car accident that he lost his memory?”
And that’s when the idea had locked in. I think he was in the military, but he won’t talk about it.
Ding, ding, ding. “You think he has amnesia?” she’d voiced to Coco. “I know it sounds like something that only happens in soap operas, but I was reading this article about this guy in Arizona who fell in the bathroom and lost twenty years of his life. It happens. And often, from trauma.”
Amnesia.
Coco had nothing, so RJ had spent the night googling it and forming her own hypothesis, one that included a fall, probably hippocampal damage, retrograde amnesia, at least of the past few years, and finally nothing that offered a real cure.
Maybe with time, and perhaps exposure to past memories via smell or music or photographs, he might…
He might be York again.
But in some cases, it never resolved.
Which meant he might never know he was in danger.
So, she’d stuck around, showing up every day with her scrub brush and even joining the handful of helpers for lunch, not sure what to do.
At night, she’d stayed until he got into Raven’s car. And waited until they turned the corner before she let herself cry.
She’d even shown up at the baseball field yesterday, at loose ends with herself, standing in the shadows in case any Russian thugs showed up.
Sheesh, she’d turned into Tate, the bodyguard.
But it was just an excuse, a way to hang on because York was so very, very capable. He’d swatted a couple pitches into left field like he might be Babe Ruth. And when they put him in center field, he scooped up at least two fly balls, fielding the others.
The man did everything well.
Including sweat. He came onto the bench with a line of exertion down his back, pulled off his hat, and it left all that beautiful blond hair a mess of tangles. He hadn’t cut it in weeks, and now it lay longer than she’d ever seen it, golden and kissed by the sun. He still hadn’t shaved either, the sun picking up the bronze in his beard. He’d worn a shirt with cutoff sleeves and a pair of jeans and Converse tennis shoes and looked so utterly not York, it had made her realize what an all-around American kid he was at heart.
Or at least had wanted to be.
If he hadn’t grown up in Russia, witnessed the murder of his parents, and been raised by his grandparents in Wisconsin.
Probably he’d played baseball there—which of course he couldn’t remember—so seeing him play made her realize just how close York was to being the man he’d probably dreamed of being.
Before he joined the Marines.
Before he transferred to the security detail of the American ambassador to Russia.
Before he married the ambassador’s daughter on the sly.
Before he lost his job and started working for the CIA.
Before his wife and son were murdered.
Before he killed the man to blame.
And before he entered, as he put it, the “transportation” business.
Oh, yes, and that was before his girlfriend was killed by the same assassin who tried to frame RJ for murder.
But all of that would not have changed her answer, if he’d let her give it after he chased her down. After he forced the truth out of her.
Just tell me…was I a good man?
Yes. Absolutely.
The kind of man who deserved a fresh start.
So yes, York had a lot of reasons to want to forget his past and become Mack Jones, and if she loved him, really loved him, she’d let him.
Right?
“I really enjoy Caleb’s preaching. It always hits the mark.” Darcy’s comment brought her back to the moment, and RJ turned.
“Yes, it was good. Life changing, really.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to check out today. Thank you.”
Darcy smiled at her. “Tired of our town already?”
“No. I love Shelly. But I don’t…well, I got what I came for.”
“The scenery?”
RJ nodded, unable to speak through the thickening of her throat. Then she turned and headed up to her room.
She should have left earlier, but this morning…well, she’d needed something. Needed to lean in to the only thing that had ever made sense…
Because for the first time in her life, she felt very, very alone. And normally, in the past, her father would have shown up with wisdom.
So she’d come down to breakfast and asked Darcy for directions to the nearest church.
She never expected to see York sitting near the front.
Opening the door to her room, she went straight for her carry-on and tossed it on the bed. Swept the clothing from her drawer into the bag. Went to the bathroom to fetch her toiletries bag.
Stared at her reflection in the mirror. Reddened eyes, a hint of a tan, her dark hair tangled around her face. Do you have nothing? Do you want to be reborn? Do you want to discover your true self?
She had discovered her true self—or at least she thought she had—with York. With him she’d been brave and strong and capable and…
Maybe she didn’t have to have York to be all those things, right?
She ran water and dampened a washcloth, pressing it to her face.
Breathed, hearing her thundering heart.
Then right now is the day of your rebirth.
She couldn’t believe it when she saw York rising, saw him scoot out of the pew, saw him walk up to the altar and bend to his knees. Bow his head.
Saw his shoulders shake.
And right before her eyes, he became reborn. Free.
It wrecked her.
She couldn’t imprison him again with his past. Not just his pain, but with the fear of it roaring back. She couldn’t leave him looking over his shoulder wondering when it might hurt the life he wanted.
She’d find Gustov on her own and make sure he never destroyed Mack’s world.
But somehow, she had to figure out a way to tell Mack about his past…something that didn’t destroy him but enough to let him in on the danger of Gustov.
Then again, Gustov hadn’t shown up yet, and if Mack could stay out of the news, the likelihood of Gustov tracking him to this little town…
Yeah, he should know.
Maybe she could write him a note. Just tell him to watch out.
Grabbing her toiletry kit, she dropped it into the carry-on bag, then closed it up. She could probably bunk with her mother at Wyatt’s place tonight in Seattle. Resume the search for Gustov with Vicktor in the morning.
Yes.
She stood in the silence of the room, pressing her hands to her face.
God, I know I don’t pray enough, but…please, help me to let him go. And protect him.
She blew out her breath, turned, and scooped up her baggage.
Opened her door.
Mack stood in the threshold, one hand braced on the frame. He looked at her, his blue eyes stormy. “I don’t believe you.”
She hitched her breath. “Uh—”
He took a step toward her, backing her into the room. “I don’t believe you.”
“What don’t you—”
“That’s what you said to me five days ago. In Russian, at the pub, wasn’t it? I. Don’t. Believe. You.”
Oh. She nodded.
He closed the door. “Start at the beginning.”