Her groom was going to have a heart attack before she even got him to the altar.
Glo couldn’t decide whom Tate blamed the most for Sloan’s escape—Sloan or himself for thinking Sloan couldn’t squeeze through the tiny bathroom window.
But he’d nearly lost his head when RJ came running out of the house with the news of Sloan’s escape.
Glo had been upstairs writing out her vows—things about loving Tate through every season and how she’d never let her fear push him away—and that’s when she heard him shout.
By the time she looked out the window, he’d galvanized his brothers in a search.
Reuben took the ranch truck, Knox on one of the horses, Tate in the four-wheeler, and Wyatt came into the house.
York had taken off into the backyard on foot.
Tate had found Sloan in less than an hour, near the road, hiding in a ditch. Glo didn’t mention the facial bruises on both of them when he hauled Sloan back to the ranch. It made Sloan look beat-up—but only toughened Tate’s hard-edged expression as he threw Sloan back into the bathroom, boarding up the window with plywood.
He retied the door shut, then grabbed a sofa pillow and sat on the floor, just down the hall from the door.
“Seriously? The night before our wedding?” She hunkered down next to him. “You need a decent night’s sleep.” She handed him a bag of ice for the bruise on his cheekbone. She’d already given one to Sloan right before Tate locked him away.
“I won’t sleep,” Tate said. “I can’t believe I was so stupid to fall for his lies.”
Glo nodded. “I even believed him. I didn’t want to, but—”
“He’s a lobbyist. A politician. Of course he’d twist things to make us believe him.”
She wound her fingers through his and leaned against his shoulder. “Do you think he wanted to talk to my mother so he could hurt her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But don’t worry—that’s not going to happen.”
“So, it’s over.”
He nodded and kissed the top of her head.
And sorry, but that wasn’t enough. She pressed her hand against his cheek and kissed him. The kind of kiss that said exactly what she’d written in her vows—that she trusted him. Loved him, even when she was afraid. Believed in him.
Believed in their happy ending.
He made a sound deep in the back of his throat, unlatching his hand and winding his arm around her, pulling her against him. As if he might be vowing to her the same things.
He tasted of the night, his whiskers scraping her face, his grip tight, and tomorrow couldn’t arrive fast enough.
Especially when he deepened his kiss, right there in the dark hallway of their house.
Oh, Tate, I love you too.
He finally broke away, breathing a little hard, and met her eyes. “Go to bed, Glo. We’re pretty safe here in the hallway of my house, but the fact we’re getting married tomorrow is playing a game in my head, and I need you to walk away from me.”
By the heat in his eyes, he wasn’t kidding. She caught his face in her hands, gave him one last quick kiss, and got up. “Please don’t spend the night in the hallway.”
He gave her a smile. “Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to have an unforgettable day tomorrow.”
“Okay, Marshal Dillon, have a good night.”
She left him there.
And resisted the urge to return to him all night long.
But maybe he was right because she woke to glorious blue skies, the sun arching over the eastern horizon, the wind sweeping the scent of lodgepole pine and prairie grasses into her open windows. Gerri had generously given up her master bedroom for Glo and Cher. Dixie and Elijah Blue had found hotel rooms in town, and her mother and her security team, as well as her father, had arrived last night at the vacation house Tate had rented.
Tate wanted to clear the air with her mother, but of course her mother was innocent. RJ was weaving a conspiracy theory out of mid-air.
And, the last thing Glo wanted was her fiction darkening her wedding day.
Cher had hired a minister from Geraldine who’d agreed to the hasty ceremony. Glo’s mother wasn’t thrilled with the family-only event, but she wouldn’t have been happy with anything less than a star-studded gala on the lawns of the Jackson estate, Glo in a ball gown and tiara.
Hardly a production they could pull off with only two weeks before the election.
Besides, Glo wasn’t a ball gown and tiara kind of girl.
Her wedding dress hung from a hanger on the closet door, the short, gauzy veil with the vintage white cap hanging nearby, and her crystal-studded white cowboy boots in a bag on a third hanger.
Cher hadn’t been able to rent a tux for Tate, so he was wearing one of his suits. Not her first choice, but Tate would look amazing in a burlap bag, so Glo didn’t care.
In fact, the only thing she wanted was Tate, at the altar, his hands in hers, saying I do.
I do and will forever and ever, amen.
Yes, she’d been silly to be so afraid of some kind of disaster destroying her day. Her future.
You have to believe that no matter what happens, you’re going to be okay. That God’s grace is enough. Dixie’s words. Glo was determined to believe she was right.
She found the kitchen abuzz with activity when she came downstairs in a bathrobe, her hair back in a bandanna.
Cher and Kelsey sat at the table winding twine around chrysanthemums to affix to the folding chairs Knox had picked up from their small church in town. Gerri was marinating the chicken and beef for the kebabs while Gilly finished loading a two-tier tray of cupcakes.
Outside, Glo spotted Swamp and Rags, two of her security detail. They’d spent the night at the vacation house, so a good bet was that her mother was nearby. And hopefully her father, although he’d probably be out in the barn or somewhere on the ranch in conversation with one of the guys.
Reuben was on the porch cleaning the grill.
RJ was chopping zucchini for the kebabs, her expression one of disapproval.
Probably because Sloan was sitting at the kitchen island, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a cinnamon roll, York watching him with those scary blue eyes, his expression grim. Tate hadn’t let RJ or York talk to Sloan last night, refusing to let him spin any more lies about her mother.
Thank you, Tate. Glo didn’t want to hold anything against RJ, but the woman had conspiracy theories floating around her analyst brain.
Then again, that was her job—to root out nefarious plots.
Glo could hardly believe that the traitor inside her mother’s organization was Sloan. But it made sense. She’d even talked it over with Kelsey and Cher last night.
“He knew where Tate was in Vegas, both times,” Kelsey said after hearing the story.
“And let’s not forget he was insanely jealous of you and Tate,” Cher added. “I’m sure your mother asked him to vet Tate when he first joined your band. So he knew all about his past, especially his involvement with the Bratva.”
“I just never thought he would try and kill him.” Although, maybe she really didn’t know Sloan.
“And he was at the hotel where that woman was killed,” Kelsey said. “RJ’s boss.”
“Sophia Randall. Right. Which puts him in Seattle for the shooting at my mom’s rally.”
“Maybe Tate was the target,” Kelsey had said.
And that had sent a tremble into Glo’s bones.
But Sloan was under watch now, and he couldn’t hurt anyone.
Still, it unnerved her to see him sitting at the island as if he might be a guest. He looked at her. “Good morning.”
She frowned. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry, honey, he’ll be back in the bathroom soon enough,” York growled.
“No, he won’t.” Her mother emerged from said bathroom. She wore a black dress with full, lacy arms, her hair down around her shoulders.
“Black, Mom, really?”
“Sorry, honey. I came right from a charity gala and didn’t have time to pick up a new gown. I decided this was better than a white pantsuit, right?” She kissed Glo on the cheek, then turned to York and held out her hand. “We met in Seattle.”
“Ma’am,” he said and shook her hand. “I appreciate your compassion, but Sloan—”
“Is innocent,” Her mother said.
Silence as all motion in the kitchen stopped.
“See?” Sloan said. “I knew your mother would vouch for me.”
Her mother held up her hand. She knew how to command a room, knew how to find exactly the right expression of disdain and confidence. “I didn’t say he hadn’t made mistakes. Clearly what he did to Tate—”
“Ma’am!” Sloan started, but her mother gave him a look and he closed his mouth.
“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that he was behind the attack on Tate. It still doesn’t make him guilty of murder. My team took a look at Tate’s information, and Sloan has satisfactory alibis for each event.”
Where was Tate? Glo had expected him to be sitting in the kitchen watching Sloan like a bulldog. Except maybe he’d been up all night, so perhaps he was getting some winks.
Or maybe he was executing his usual prowl around the perimeter.
“Of course he won’t be allowed to leave, not until the proper authorities can verify his story. I’ve called the FBI, and they’re sending a team out to secure Sloan. Until then…” She turned to Sloan. “You’ve been a valuable member of my team for many years, and a friend of the family. You can join us at the wedding.”
“Mom!”
Her mother turned to Glo. Took a breath. “You’re right. It’s up to you, honey.”
Really? Glo stared at her, a little speechless. Out of the corner of her eye, Sloan was looking away, something pained on his face.
Oh, maybe her mother was right. Her mother had vouched for him.
“Fine. Okay.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s my girl.” She kissed Glo on the cheek again. “Oh, and your father is outside with Tate, giving him the talk, but he’ll be in shortly.”
The talk?
What talk?
But neither Tate nor her father mentioned it when they came in from whatever father-son chat they’d had out near the corral.
Tate nearly went ballistic again when Glo summed up her mother’s verdict, but when York said he’d watch Sloan, he consigned himself to the fact that the senator had the last say.
For now.
Really, it didn’t matter.
Again, the only thing Glo wanted was Tate, at the altar, his hands in hers, saying I do.
And maybe for nothing disastrous to happen. Like a sudden snowstorm or perhaps a nuclear bomb detonation.
“Hey, Glo-light,” her father said as he grabbed a cup of coffee. He wore a pair of gray pants, a white shirt, a vest, and a bow tie. And, of course, his black Cons.
“You’re looking very history professorish today.”
“At least I don’t have chalk in my hair.” He kissed her cheek. He’d cut his long hair for a big fund-raising dinner four months ago, but now it was curly again around his ears.
“Working on that man bun I see.”
“School’s already started. I feel like a hockey player without a beard.”
She laughed. Leaned close. “Wanna tell me what you and Tate talked about?”
“Just the usual. If he hurts you, I’ll kill him, that sort of thing.” He winked.
And somehow, right then, the day turned perfect.
See, she had nothing to worry about. Especially when she stood at the threshold of the porch some three hours later, the sun a glorious chandelier to their afternoon wedding. A white runner down the aisle of grass was framed by red, yellow, and orange chrysanthemums in mason jars.
And at the end, past the smiling faces of their small congregation, stood Tate.
Glo could barely breathe. He wore a black suit, a silver bow tie at his neck, and a pair of shiny, black cowboy boots. He’d shaved and now stared at her with such a look—yearning, admiration, love—it was a good thing she could hang on to her father’s arm.
Except it wasn’t an unknown minister standing at the end of the aisle, but…Hardwin?
She looked at Cher standing beside her. “What?”
“The minister couldn’t make it. Gerri said that Hardwin was licensed to perform weddings in Montana—he’d done one for his daughter a year or so back. We checked, and his license was still good…see, everything is going to be just fine. No disaster waiting. And you look gorgeous, by the way.”
Yes, maybe, by the look in Tate’s eyes as she glanced toward him. Her groom was flanked by Knox, then Reuben and Wyatt. Too bad his brother Ford couldn’t be here, but that was military life.
Cher handed her the bouquet of dark purple calla lilies as Dixie began playing “A Thousand Years” on her violin.
Not even the sight of Sloan standing two chairs down from her mother could mar the day. She ignored him, her gaze on her groom as she headed toward him.
Overhead, a hawk cried, the sound piercing through the music.
She slowed, but Tate didn’t take his eyes off her. Just gave her a slow, warm smile.
Held out his hand when she reached him.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I thought you’d never get here.”
Oh, Tater.
Hardwin smiled at her, nothing of the embarrassment of his failed proposal in his expression. She didn’t have time to wonder at that because he dove in to the ceremony with greetings, a prayer.
“I wanted to say a few words about marriage,” Hardwin said, and just for a moment, his gaze cut past them to the audience.
She didn’t have to guess who his target might be.
“Marriage is meant to be a taste of heaven. A taste of that amazing union of the church—the Bride—and her Savior. See, we were made for eternity. For much more beyond this life. But we can’t see eternity, can’t taste it, and we have to live on faith that it’s out there. And so God, in His kindness, gave us glimpses here. The beauty of this world, the laughter of our children, friendships and support of our family, and the love of our spouse. Even our suffering gives us a taste of heaven because it drives us into the arms of our good, good Father.”
Tate looked down, away, and it occurred to her that his own father wasn’t here. She squeezed his hand.
“And that’s what I want you to remember as you walk into this new life together. Lean in to each other, but lean also in to God. Remind yourself, through everything, who He is. God is good. He is our rescuer, the tearer downer of strongholds, our forgiver and provider, and most of all, the victor. When all else is done, God is enough, everything, and always. Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God. Believe also in Jesus. Trust Him to give you what you need. And in this, you will find what you truly hunger for—peace for your souls. Let’s stand and pray, and then we’ll ask Tate and Glo if they want to be married to each other.”
Tate looked at her, his eyes a little reddened. Nodded.
You have to believe that no matter what happens, you’re going to be okay. That God’s grace is enough.
Yes, yes it was, no matter—
A crack sounded, a distant roar that dissipated into the sky.
Tate jerked, and in a second, he wrapped his arms around Glo, enfolding her to himself.
What—? “Tate, let me go!”
Another crack, and this time Tate brought her to the ground.
“Is someone shooting at us?”
Maybe, because screams erupted along with the shouts of the security team.
“Everybody down!” Maybe York’s voice, maybe one of the brothers, she didn’t know.
She just knew that Tate’s body covered hers, his breath in her ear. “Don’t move.”
And then he got up.
She grabbed him, her hand in his jacket. “Where are you going?”
He looked at her and when another shot sounded, braced his body over hers, his mouth close to her ear. “Let go of me, Glo. I think your mother’s been shot.”
It happened so fast, RJ had trouble sorting it out.
One minute she was standing beside her mother, tumbling Hardwin’s words through her head—When all else is done, God is enough, everything, and always.
And then, the shot. At first, it sounded like the kind of shot she’d grown up hearing occasionally on the range. Usually a rancher shooting a critter, or maybe a hunter after a deer.
But then Senator Jackson screamed. Someone nearby her took her down, and she curled into a ball, still screaming.
And in that second, the case RJ had built against Jackson exploded. Clearly, she was the target, and RJ had conjured up a conspiracy theory of epic proportions when, instead, they should still be looking for a shooter.
Probably Damien Gustov, in league with the Bratva, who wanted to derail the conservative party’s candidates and weaken America when they put Petrov in power.
Then the second shot sounded, and RJ hit her knees.
Only then did she realize that the man who’d landed on the senator was Sloan.
Wait—what?
She scrabbled toward the woman, but Tate was already there.
“It’s Sloan! He’s trying to kill the Senator!”
She didn’t know who shouted it, but, wrong again, because Sloan lay still, slumped over the woman, who was hitting him, still screaming. “Get him off me!”
“Ma’am, don’t move,” Tate was saying as he pulled Sloan away.
RJ spotted blood pooling on Senator Jackson’s body, center mass.
They needed to stop the bleeding. RJ climbed to her feet, but York yanked her down so hard she fell in the grass next to him. “Stay down!”
“The senator!”
“It’s not my blood—it’s not mine!” Jackson shouted.
And that’s when RJ realized why Sloan had fallen.
Maybe to protect the senator, maybe not. But someone had shot him through the heart.
Sloan was very, very dead, his eyes already glassy, his chest sopping blood.
RJ’s brain was scrambling that fact through her head when Glo screamed and crawled over to her mother.
Tate caught her. “Inside the house, Glo,” he said and got up, his body around hers, and took off for the house.
A couple of the senator’s security personnel had raced in to cover Jackson.
“Let’s get inside,” York said. He’d crawled over to hover beside RJ, studying the activity around them, his face grim.
And then his face paled, horror bleeding into his expression. He looked back at RJ.
“What—?”
She turned.
And screamed.
Her mother lay on the ground, moaning, writhing. Knox and Reuben kneeling on either side of her, Reuben’s hands on her chest trying to stave a flow of blood that leached out around his grip. Knox was tearing off his shirt, wadding it into a ball, visibly shaking. “Get help!”
Wyatt took off for the house, not even bothering to duck. Coco had grabbed Mikka, and now he ran behind them, protecting them, his back to the shooter.
York clamped his arms around RJ, a vise that, for the moment, kept her from shattering. “It’s okay, she’ll be okay—”
RJ couldn’t stop screaming.
Knox shoved his shirt over the wound and took over the pressure as Reuben got up. Gilly was still crouched on the ground, her hands over her belly. “We’ll get the plane warmed up,” he said to her, and she nodded as he pulled her in tight next to him and took off for the house.
“You’ll never get to the hospital in time,” Hardwin said. He was also crouched next to Knox. “Let me call a friend—he’s got a rescue chopper and a medical team.” He was already on his cell phone, his hands shaking.
He covered his mouth and turned away.
The shooting had stopped.
“Get in the house, RJ,” York said.
“I’m not leaving my mother!” She tried to wrestle out of his grip, but he wasn’t letting her go, his hold tightening.
“Okay, okay. Just breathe.”
Breathe. As her mother bled to death. But she stopped trying to shake away. Instead she wound her fingers around his strong forearms and hung on.
Kelsey crouched next to Knox. “Elevate her legs or she’ll go into shock.”
“Get in the house, Kels,” Knox barked. “Right now.”
Even RJ was afraid at Knox’s shattered, terrified tone.
Kelsey got up and ran.
The security team had hustled Jackson in too, which just left Sloan’s dead body, her mother, and the handful of people trying to save her life.
“Chopper is on the way,” Hardwin said. He took Ma’s hand. “Don’t you die on me, Gerri Marshall. Even if you won’t marry me, I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
Oh, RJ might throw up, right there, and she simply gave in to York’s arms around her, turning her face away. “God, please, please don’t let her die.”
“She’s still breathing,” Knox said. “Ma, stay awake.”
“Let’s get her inside,” Reuben said, running back to them. He scooped up their mother as if she weighed nothing. Knox pressed his hands on her chest and they headed toward the house.
RJ held her breath, unable to move.
Still, no more shots.
“Let’s go,” York said and took her hand.
Inside, they put her mother on the kitchen floor. Kelsey and Coco had retrieved towels and now pressed them against the wound. RJ had taken a look—it seemed the bullet had hit somewhere on the right side of her chest—probably missing her heart, but certainly her lungs had to be damaged.
Her mother wasn’t breathing well, making tiny, pained noises.
“Hang in there, Ma.”
Knox hit his feet. Turned to Hardwin. “Your chopper isn’t going to make it—we gotta take her by plane.”
“They’ll have medical equipment and EMTs.”
“We can fly her to Helena,” Reuben said. “Gilly’s already getting the plane warmed up.”
“Kalispell has the number one trauma center in Montana,” Hardwin said, his voice terribly, perfectly calm. “And it’s just about the same distance.”
And in that moment, he reminded RJ so much of her father, it nearly buckled her legs. Calm. And completely committed to saving their mother.
But not the same, either, because he was standing back, letting the brothers care for their mother.
Then again, he wasn’t her husband.
Yet.
Oh please, Ma. Because her mother had found a true man in Hardwin. A man who wouldn’t walk away.
A man to share all the moments with her—please let her have more moments.
And maybe RJ had found a true man, too, because York still had a hold of her hand. He wasn’t running around like crazy Tate trying to save the world.
York was just right here, with her, saving hers.
Even though she told him they couldn’t be together.
But as she stared at her mother trying to breathe, blood pooling on the kitchen floor, she realized—
She wanted York more than she wanted a life that—well, that could explode in her hands at any moment. What had he said? I’d eat turnips if it meant you were with me.
Yeah, turnips for her too. Because she would rather be with him for all the boring moments than without him for the big ones.
Forever and ever, amen.
But now wasn’t the time to tell him that.
Hardwin walked out to the porch, again on his phone. This time, RJ heard shouting.
Tate came charging back into the room. RJ wasn’t sure where he’d gone—maybe to see Jackson and her crew off back to the vacation house.
Glo sat on the sofa in the family room, her arms wrapped around herself in her beautiful, now grass-and-blood-stained wedding dress, her knees scraped from when Tate tackled her, tears streaming down her face.
RJ felt bad for her. And now replayed their conversation in the den in her head.
Glo was so sure her mother was innocent.
Except…and amidst all the chaos and horror, as Tate and her brothers packed their mother’s wound with ice and bandages, it came to RJ—what if Sloan had been the target?
What if everything he said had been true? He hadn’t been a traitor but had indeed been framed. A scapegoat for someone else’s actions. Because why else would he leap on the senator, trying to protect her?
Hardwin came back inside. “Let’s get her down to the plane. They’re on their way, but they might not get here in time.”
“We need a stretcher,” Knox said.
Wyatt walked over to a kitchen drawer, took out a butter knife, and started to remove the hinges on the pantry door.
Tate helped him.
“What if Sloan was the target?” she said to York and maybe anyone else who was listening. “What if he was silenced because—”
“Oh, not this again,” Glo said, jumping up. “Seriously? Someone just tried to murder my mother and you’re going to bring up your crazy conspiracy theory?”
“Glo—c’mon!” Tate was saying as he brought over the door. “Not now.” He looked at RJ with a glare.
“But—if he was the target, why would he try and save her life?”
“He didn’t try and save her life!” Tate shouted. “The shooter missed!” He turned to Reuben. “Let’s lift her onto the board.”
“Did he? What if this was intended to silence—”
“Shut up, RJ!” Wyatt said, crouching near their mother, lifting her shoulders with the rest of his brothers. “Just shut up.”
His tone rocked RJ back, but no more than the look he gave her after they settled their mother on the door. “You got us all into this freakin’ mess—if you hadn’t gone over to Russia with your stupid overactive imagination—”
“Hey!” York said.
“No, you hey,” Knox said, getting up. “Step back, York.” He looked at Wyatt. “This isn’t the time.”
“When is the time, Knox?” Tate said. “This is crazy, RJ! Sloan escaped so he could connect with whomever his shooter was—probably this Martin guy you talked about.”
“Martin is dead,” York said quietly.
“Really?” Tate said. “How do you know?”
“Really.” York let go of RJ’s hand, took a breath, and stepped toward Tate. “Because I killed him.”
And the entire room went quiet. Tate just blinked at York, and Knox blew out a breath. Reuben ignored them all, motioning to Wyatt to pick up the other end of the door.
But Wyatt was looking at RJ. “Nice. So now, whoever is after you is after us.” He lifted the door, his gaze on RJ. “You brought an assassin into our lives and now Ma is dying.”
And if there was any air left in the room, Wyatt’s words sucked it out.
York’s not an assassin, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t emerge. Because, actually, well…
RJ’s eyes filled and she turned away, pressed her hand to her mouth.
“Let’s go,” Hardwin said, but behind his words came the distant hum of a chopper.
He ran out to the backyard, waving his hands.
Tate didn’t look at RJ as he held open the door for Reuben and Wyatt, as they carried their mother to the chopper, Knox still pressing on her wound.
The blue-and-red chopper landed in the yard, and the door opened. A couple of EMTs came out, a man with long brown hair tied back, the other a taller man, the copilot. A woman sat in the cockpit, kept the rotors turning.
The two EMTs transferred her mother onto a gurney and loaded her into the chopper, securing the gurney to the floor. Meanwhile, the brothers waged a loaded conversation, hidden under the roar of the chopper, as to who might ride with her.
Reuben won.
He got in and the doors closed, and RJ stood with her hand to her mouth as the bird rose into the blue sky. Stay alive, Ma.
Silence descended as the brothers came back inside. No one looked at her. Knox went to the sink to wash his hands.
“The Cessna holds five passengers” Knox said, grabbing a towel.
“I’ll stay here with Mikka,” Coco said, her arms around her son as they sat in a leather chair. The boy looked spooked. “Wyatt, you should go.”
“I’ll stay too,” Kelsey said. “Knox. Go be with your mom.”
Glo’s mouth tightened as she looked at Tate, her eyes filling. But she nodded.
Tate closed his eyes, looking pained. Then sighed, opened them, and nodded. “I’ll get Swamp and Rags over here.”
“I’m sorry, but RJ isn’t going anywhere without me,” York said quietly, and RJ looked at him. “So, if we need to take the truck—”
“You’re going on the stupid plane,” Tate growled. “Let’s go.” He too had washed his hands and now threw the towel in the sink.
York took her hand again.
As they left, she realized that Hardwin’s truck was already gone.
She’d never endured a more miserable flight. They touched down at the airport, took a cab to the hospital, and arrived just as her mother was going into surgery.
Still alive.
Hardwin arrived twenty minutes later. He sat away from them, and RJ couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.
But she was afraid to say anything. Because maybe they all were right.
Maybe this was her fault.
She finally got up and headed out into the hallway, stopping by the big windows that overlooked the mountains to the north. The sun had sunk to just above the ragged horizon, tipping the early season snow a blood red, the backdrop a bruised magenta.
She pressed her hand against the pane.
“They’re wrong, you know.”
She didn’t expect the voice that followed her.
“Just because people do bad things doesn’t mean we’re responsible for their actions,” Hardwin said softly. “You’re just like your mother. She’s smart and brave and she would have done the same thing if she had to.”
“What, go to Russia and get in way over her head?” RJ turned, her eyes filling. “And bring trouble home to her family?”
Hardwin had taken off his Stetson and now ran his fingers along the rim. “She would have done what was right, regardless of the cost. Because that is the core of who your mother is. And who you are, RJ. Who you all are. And I guess it’s because of your father, also—you’re like him too. You have his heart.”
“What if she dies?” Her voice trembled.
Hardwin reached out and pulled her into a hug.
She covered her face with her hands, letting her fears shake out.
“Shh,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”
“My brothers hate me.”
“No they don’t. They’re scared, just like you, and they want someone to blame when life feels out of control.”
“They refuse to listen to me.”
“Yeah?” He leaned back. “Well, your man York is having it out with them right now.”
Her eyes widened.
“He’s got your back, kiddo.”
Huh. She wiped her cheeks. “Are you going to ask my mom to marry you again?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “If she wants me to. And if she doesn’t, then I’m going to stick around anyway. Because I love her. Now, I’m going to get some coffee. You want some?”
She nodded.
Hardwin left her there and headed down the hallway.
York is having it out with them right now.
And then the words York said in the kitchen came back to her.
He’d killed Martin. Or at least thought he did. But Crowley said Martin might be still alive…
And finally the last of the puzzle pieces fell into place.
There was only one person who tied everyone together, who knew what York knew, who had been there at the beginning, and now at the end.
Who knew all the players, the big picture, and probably the end game.
This was all her fault.
She turned and headed down the hallway, back to the waiting room.
Her phone buzzed, however, and she pulled it out. Didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“You just can’t obey orders, can you?”
Her breath caught.
“It’s been you all along.”
“You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Clearly not smart enough. I should have guessed this was personal.”
“Very.” He hung up.
She stilled, looked at her phone. Then, oh, York! He had to know—
But from behind her, a hand covered her mouth, an arm pulled her against a hard male body and dragged her into the stairwell.
She kicked at him, but a hard prick into her neck, the cool rush of liquid told her that the fun and games had just begun.
RJ’s brothers looked like they wanted to take him out, each one, separately.
Yeah, well, let’s go.
That’s what York wanted to say. Because it twisted him up inside to see RJ hurt, to see her reddened eyes.
To watch her walk out of the room.
“You guys were way too hard on her.”
Right about then Hardwin had walked out, and York had the sense of being the lone dog amongst wolves.
Tate gave him a look. “York, I get that you want to protect her—”
“Of course I do. I love her. But I also know she’s right.” York didn’t raise his voice, just kept it even, calm.
But with enough threat to let them know that Tate wasn’t the only alpha dog in the group.
He didn’t want to throw down with RJ’s brothers, but he would, if he had to. “You need to listen to me. RJ is smart, really smart, and she’s figured this thing out.”
Tate was shaking his head.
“I know it sounds crazy”—and he held up his hand to Tate—“but RJ has drawn a line between Reba Jackson and everything that’s happened.”
“I think the more you persist with this, the more we waste our time,” Tate said. “You had me thinking it was Sloan, and all my attention was on him and not on the fact that there was a shooter in my backyard!”
“Then do your freakin’ job better!”
Tate took a step toward him. “If I hadn’t suspected Sloan, I would have set up a perimeter—”
“Just stop, you two,” Reuben said. He stood by the window, looking out. “This is exactly what evil wants—us fighting each other.” He turned. “It drove us apart before, and…well, the last thing Ma would want is our family yelling at each other.”
“He’s not my family,” Wyatt snapped.
“But he probably will be.” The voice came from the doorway and York turned to see Ford standing there, dressed in his civvies, holding hands with Scarlett. His hair bore a fresh clipping, and he came into the room looking travel weary, a strain around his eyes.
“Ford? What—”
“Sorry I’m late—our plane in Helena just landed and Hardwin called me on the way to the hospital.” Ford walked in. “How’s Ma?”
Knox leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Tough shape. The bullet collapsed her lung, and she has quite a bit of internal bleeding.”
Ford nodded, his jaw tight.
York glanced at him, a little surprised at his unlikely ally. The last time he’d seen Ford the man had left a few bruises.
Ford came over to him. “So you’re not dead after all.”
York looked at him, but Ford smiled. “RJ refused to stop looking for you. She believed that you’re apparently superhuman.”
He wanted to smile at that. But Ford’s words raised the prayer that kept rattling around inside him. The one he’d spoken nearly a week ago at the altar in Shelly. Please, Jesus…help me to live as a new man.
For a week he’d been trying to figure out what that meant—a new man. Sort of thought it meant starting over, far away from his old life.
But something Hardwin had said kept ringing through his mind too. When all else is done, God is enough, everything, and always.
What if living as a new man wasn’t about changing his location or his name or even his skill set—but what Caleb had said…just him, clinging to God?
Just him and God, nothing else between them. No hate, no anger, no fear—
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.
Maybe his purpose wasn’t a mission or a name or even a location but a surrender.
What if he was just supposed to do and be who God told him he was?
Trust Him to give you what you need. And in this, you will find what you truly hunger for—peace for your souls.
He hungered for peace. For home. For RJ.
And maybe a small town. Lasagna. Baseball.
But not today. Not yet.
Because he also hungered for justice.
Which felt like something that was very much on God’s list also.
“I’m not superhuman,” he said now to the Marshall brothers. “But I do have a certain set of skills that might help you catch the person who shot your mother.”
Tate looked at him. Then he gave a slow nod.
Wyatt too.
Knox sighed. “Thanks, York.”
Ford clamped him on the shoulder.
Hardwin walked back in, carrying coffee. Looked around. “Where’s RJ? I got her a cup of coffee.”
York frowned. “I’ll go find her.”
But as he was starting to leave, the surgeon came into the room. He wore scrubs, a tall man who introduced himself as Dr. Wilson. “She’s out of surgery and doing well. We have her in recovery, but she’ll be in a room in a bit—you can see her then.”
York could nearly feel the collective relief from her sons as he exited the room. He looked up the hall for RJ.
Found the vending machines. Came back. “Did you see her, Hardwin, when you went for coffee?”
“Yes,” Hardwin said and frowned. “We talked. She got a call just as I was leaving.”
Huh.
York exited again and this time headed downstairs to the lobby. Sometimes with calls, reception was spotty in a hospital.
He lifted his own burner phone, the one he’d picked up in Vegas, from his pocket. Dialed RJ’s number.
Got her voicemail.
And now he was worried.
He called again. “RJ, call me when you get this.” Texted the same message.
She wasn’t outside in the parking lot.
The hair started to rise on the back of his neck.
He returned to the waiting room, hoping she’d beat him back. The brothers were just starting to leave to visit their mother.
Ford gave him a frown.
“I can’t find RJ.”
Ford turned to Scarlett. York recognized her from the alleyway in Russia, the woman who had crossed an ocean with Ford to find his sister. “Can you check the ladies room?”
Thank you, Ford, for being worried. “It’s weird, right?”
Ford nodded. Reuben, Knox, Tate, Wyatt and Hardwin followed a nurse down the hall toward Gerri’s room. Ford waited with him.
Ford looked at him. “We never, um…so…” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for watching RJ’s back in Russia.”
“Thanks for getting her home.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Thanks.”
Scarlett returned, shaking her head.
And now York was starting to freak out, a fist in his gut. RJ—
His phone vibrated in his hand. The only one who knew his number was RJ. “Hey. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Da,” said the voice. “Vso Horosho.”
York stiffened, the Russian like an old shoe he’d slipped on and was still trying to work out the kinks. Because the voice stirred up a dark, age-old threat, one he’d tried to forget.
And, he understood the words perfectly.
Of course. He closed his eyes, his jaw tight. “Where is she?” he said in Russian, glancing at Ford, then walking to the window. He looked down three stories to the parking lot, scanning it. He switched to English, his voice emerging in a growl. “You’d better not have hurt her.”
“She’ll be just fine, York. All I want is you.”
He didn’t even pause. “Deal. When and where.”
He got a location. Hung up.
Ford had followed him. “That wasn’t RJ.”
“No. But we’re going to get her back.” He pocketed the phone. “Don’t tell your brothers what’s going on. I need to finish this. But I promise—RJ will be coming home.” He strode past Ford.
The SEAL stopped him with a hand to his chest. “You’re not doing this alone.”
York moved his hand away. “He just wants me. And RJ would kill me if any of you got hurt.”
“RJ believes you’re a good man, worth fighting for. And I’m inclined to believe her.”
York considered him, a little moved by the words. Yes, he would have wanted to be in this family. He moved away from Ford. “Thanks. But RJ’s wrong. I’m not a good man. Not today, at least.”