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  He reached for her hand and gave it a quick kiss. “One more question. Can we go . . . on a date . . . after all of this?” He was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

  Mac snorted a laugh. He was so darn cute, asking for a date like they were going to the prom. How many girls had fallen for his boy-next-door routine? Would it be one date or two before he decided she was getting too close?

  “A date? That’s what people do when they want to get to know each other better, right?”

  Brady frowned. “That’s what I want . . . to get to know you.” He brought her hand to his chest and closed his eyes.

  “And will I be accorded the same?”

  He peeked from one eye as humor curled his lips. “I already told you that you’d learn more about me than you wanted to know. Weren’t you listening, or did you decide to ignore me?”

  “Did you say something?”

  “Yeah . . . that’s what I thought.” A contented smile remained for a few minutes before his perspiration-covered face relaxed in sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  BRADY’S RECOLLECTION OF the chopper landing and him jumping off to help Nick refuel two hours into their flight was hazy at best, but Mac, dogging his every step, would stand out in his mind forever. By the time they were finished, every ounce of his strength was gone, and he was only too happy to have her tuck him back under the blanket and sit leaning against him until he drifted off again.

  Actually, he may have passed out at that point, because that was his last distinct memory before he woke up here—wherever here was. Mac had been in the room the first time he woke, sleeping in a chair beside the bed with her head on his arm. Whatever he’d said to her must have been gibberish, because she patted his hand and, with sleepy eyes, whispered as though she were talking to herself. “Wherever you are.”

  Did she think he was dead? Brady didn’t argue with her.

  The next time he woke, she was gone. A solemn, unshaven, black-haired hardass was plopped in her chair instead. A pang of loneliness caught Brady off guard.

  “Where’s Mac?” His voice was as rough as his throat was dry.

  Walker picked his head up from the magazine his nose had been buried in, and a smile transformed his rough features. “It’s about fucking time you woke up.”

  “Is Joe here too?”

  “He’s currently trying to find an official who can keep your name off the report of people admitted with gunshot wounds.” Walker tossed the magazine aside.

  “Shit.” Brady rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Aw, hell. He needed something to do anyway.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “About fifteen hours.” Walker leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “So, doc said blood poisoning. That’s the third time in four years, isn’t it? What’s up with that?”

  Brady considered not answering for a moment, until he caught the familiar bulldog glint in Walker’s eyes. He sighed. “You know how it is. One of your missions doesn’t go quite the way it was supposed to, and you come out of it a little . . . different.” He glanced toward the door.

  Walker followed his gaze. “We’re alone, and it won’t leave this room. If that girl you hooked up with hadn’t pushed to bring you to the hospital before we boarded Joe’s plane, it could have been damn serious. You can’t keep us in the dark on this and expect us to pick up the pieces. Level with me, Jim.”

  If the determination in his eyes was any indication, Walker wasn’t letting this go. Brady had never talked to another soul, except the Navy shrinks, but if anyone on the planet would understand, it was Walker. Marine Special Forces, Walker had been detained in a shithole in North Korea for months. Detained was the PC word for what went down there. Brady had only heard bits and pieces of his story, but enough to lead to a bond of friendship between the two of them. Maybe it was time.

  He exhaled, long and slow, searching for the right words. “Somalia. Six years ago. The Navy inserted my team into Iskushuban. The target was a group of pirates who’d kidnapped a high-profile American couple from a beach resort in Kenya. Intel was good. We took the pirates out on the first sweep, and the rescue went off without a hitch. Then everything went to hell. The attack came from behind, and my sergeant and I fell back to hold them off until the rest of the unit and the kidnap victims reached the choppers and lifted off.” Brady was clenching his fists so hard his wounded hand throbbed.

  “We thought more pirates. We weren’t expecting a full-on military type ambush from a well-armed rebel contingent. They eventually overran our position, and it was clear they wanted us alive. By the second day, we knew why. They started on my sergeant, shooting him full of shit, asking fucked-up questions . . . like how many American merchant ships would sail into the Gulf of Aden in the next year? Which crews would the US come after, and which ones would they leave to rot in captivity? For some reason, they thought we should be able to give names, dates, and cargo. When they found out we couldn’t, or wouldn’t as they believed, they OD’d the Sarge right in front of me, and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it.” Six years since he’d watched his friend and fellow SEAL die in agony, choking on his own vomit, yet Brady remembered every excruciating detail. Even here in a hospital room with Walker sitting across from him, his fists curled as rage gripped him, cloaking him in a blood-red haze.

  It was in the past. There was nothing he could do about it. He repeated that mantra to himself several times as he struggled to control his breathing and tamp down the crushing need to kill someone with his bare hands, conscious of Walker’s steady perusal. A moment later, he cleared his throat and looked up.

  “Then they started on me, only they experimented with different drugs and combinations of drugs. Some of them made me so sick, I prayed for death. I don’t remember much of anything after that, except the day my men came for us. When they found out the Sarge was dead . . . they didn’t quit until every rebel soldier was dead.”

  Walker nodded. “But it wasn’t over for you, was it?”

  Brady’s heart rate quickened as he shook his head. “Four months I was in that hellhole before my unit came to get me, but the real prison was inside my head, and I couldn’t shake it no matter where I went. I came out of there a dope addict with anger management issues. That wasn’t the worst of it though. Every time I got sick or cut myself shaving, my body went into hyper drive, fighting something that attacked from the inside—something those bastards infected me with.”

  “No cure?” Walker’s eyes revealed his anger.

  “None so far. It’s better than it was. It doesn’t happen every time now. Meanwhile, I was asked to leave three different hospitals because I would fly into a rage for no reason, and they were afraid I’d hurt someone. The VA hospital in Richmond, Virginia, locked me up and treated my drug addiction with more drugs. Fucking idiots.” He’d be dead by now if he’d stayed there.

  “One day out of the blue, the rest of my unit came by. They sneaked in a general’s uniform, and I walked out of there with them. I didn’t realize what I was in for though. They wanted me right, and they didn’t care what they had to do. If I thought BUD/S was tough, it was nothing compared to this.” Eight weeks of basic conditioning leading up to hell week at the Naval Special Warfare Training Center had been ten times harder than he’d imagined. Pushing him to the limit for five and a half days with a total of four hours of sleep, BUD/S had taught him exactly how much more he could take . . . after he’d reached the end of his endurance.

  A grin cracked Walker’s somber expression.

  “Those men never left me alone for a minute. We ate together, trained together, lived together. The only place I could get some alone time was in the shower. I spent a lot of time there.” Brady chuckled. “Gradually, I got better . . . or so I thought. The guys were shipping out, and I was heading home to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I’d met a girl at a bar down the road, and that last night in Richmond she took me home with her. In the middle of
the night, I woke up with my hands wrapped around her throat, yelling in her face about filthy pirates and accusing her of being a spy. I remember the rage as clearly as though it were yesterday. Wanting to kill her. Needing to squeeze the life out of her.”

  “What stopped you?”

  He’d almost forgotten Walker was there in the thirty seconds it took the memory to overwhelm him, and he shook his head. “Hell if I know. But I couldn’t go home and take the chance of hurting my family. I couldn’t allow anyone to get close, so I started moving around, taking odd jobs. When I’d get too attached, I’d move on. I was doing a stint as a bouncer in a club in Portland when I met Joe. He gave me his card and said I had a job anytime I wanted. That was the turning point for me.”

  Walker’s piercing gaze bored into him. One thing he could be sure about—his friend wouldn’t judge. Still, Brady was curious to know what was going on in his head.

  “You’ve never been home?” Walker sat back in his chair, making it sound less like a question and more like a challenge.

  “No . . . but it gets worse.”

  Walker quirked an eyebrow.

  “I’ve gotten attached . . . to Mac.”

  Again, Walker’s thorough perusal swept over Brady. “I’ve never even seen you get mad. How long’s it been since you lost your cool?”

  “Four years, eight months, and sixteen days.”

  Walker snorted. “Just a rough estimate, huh? Did you ever hurt anyone else in one of your episodes?”

  “Not yet.” Dread hung on each word.

  “Maybe it’s over . . . your brain’s had time to recoup.”

  “How can I take that chance?” Brady glanced toward the door again.

  “Mac, huh? I practically had to push her out of here so she’d go get something to eat. Seems she may be attached as well . . . and she’s a good-looking woman. How can you afford not to take a chance?”

  “How long do you think she’ll be interested once she hears this story?” Brady studied his wounded hand, bandaged, nestled in a white plastic splint, and held together with an Ace wrap.

  Walker shrugged, and a grin creased his stubble-covered face. “Well, I listened . . . and I didn’t run away. But you know her—what makes you think she’ll bolt?”

  “Damn it. That’s the point. I haven’t had time to get to know her, but I wouldn’t mind finding out what kind of a girl she is . . . among other things.” He grinned at Walker’s smug look.

  “Then go for it. You’ll have nothing but time at the ranch. Of course you’ll also have Darcy, Cara, Rayna, and probably even Irene playing matchmaker for you.”

  Brady groaned. “Might as well add Maria to that list.”

  “You don’t stand a chance, my friend.” Walker chuckled as he stood, but the humor quickly faded. “Remember, Jim, your unit might not be around right now, but you’ve still got friends. A few of us will be watching your back.” Walker met his gaze just long enough to telegraph the dead seriousness of his statement. “Now, are you feeling good enough to get out of here yet?”

  Brady yanked the tape off his IV and pulled the needle from his good hand. “Fucking A!”

  “Okay then. I’ll see what I can do about getting you released.” Walker strode toward the door. “Don’t run off.”

  Brady leaned back against the pillows, exhausted from the weight of what he’d shared. He felt lighter though, like the act had unburdened him. For a moment, he allowed thoughts of his mother and two sisters to enfold him in a world with dense forests, intense humidity, and the smell of his mama’s apple pies cooling on the porch. His mother had tried to be strong, but it was no secret that it had devastated her when he didn’t come home. He tried to keep in touch by phone and e-mail, but sometimes he could tell it wasn’t enough.

  A growl rumbled in his throat as he tossed the blankets aside angrily. All this speculation that he might have finally beaten his greatest fear was just that—speculation. He wasn’t going to make his family . . . or Mac . . . guinea pigs.

  Brady swung his legs off the bed and stood, fighting against the light-headedness from rising too quickly. Other than that, he felt pretty damn good. His hand no longer hurt excruciatingly, although that could be because of something in the IV he just detached, but it was welcome nonetheless.

  “Hey, what are you doing out of bed?” Mac’s voice was music to his ears and instantly banished his irritation.

  He turned and smiled, until he saw her red-rimmed eyes with dark circles beneath and the tremble of her jaw as she met his gaze. Even in the same jeans and yellow top he’d bought her at Goodwill and with her hair tangled and tousled, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “Might have known you’d catch me in my fancy hospital gown.”

  A second of laughter brought a sparkle to her eyes as she looked him up and down, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. “You could be the poster boy for hospital gowns.”

  “I bet you say that to all the guys.” He held out his arm, inviting her closer, but she only stepped to the foot of the bed and sat, her back to him.

  “No . . . I can’t say I’ve ever said that before.”

  He walked around the end of the bed and sat next to her. “Sorry if I scared you, Mac.” Something was definitely wrong. She was nervous, jumpy, and it was plain to see she’d been crying. The anger that welled up in him, knowing that someone had made her cry, was reminiscent of the old rage that he couldn’t control. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, now that I know you’re okay.” Her smile was a bit thin, but the right side of her mouth didn’t lift, and she held his gaze without blinking. In the absence of her tell, he had to believe her.

  She was no doubt exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that had happened in the last two days. In addition, she was grieving for her friend. God knew that was enough. Brady would make sure she got the rest she needed once they reached Montana. Still, heaviness gathered in his chest.

  Voices in the hall warned him ten seconds before Walker and Joe came through the doorway. Walker went straight for the white cabinet beside the bed and pulled out his clothes and boots. He tossed the clothes on the bed and slapped an envelope down on the table. “Got your walkin’ papers, Jim. Need some help gettin’ dressed?”

  “I think I can manage, but thanks. Mac . . . this wild-looking character is Walker. Don’t worry, he’s harmless most of the time.” Brady sensed her tension and swiveled his head to study her as she glanced toward Walker.

  “We’ve met.” She sent a fleeting look toward Brady. “He uh . . . sat with you for a bit while I went to get a bite.”

  “Right. She’d been here so long, I was afraid she’d pass out from hunger.” Walker suddenly seemed on edge . . . wary.

  As Brady watched him for a clue to what was making him so uptight, Walker’s gaze went cold for the space of a heartbeat in what could only be considered a warning. To Mac? What the hell?

  “Yeah, she was pretty worried about your sorry ass.” Joe stepped forward and gripped Brady’s shoulder. “Glad you got her here safe and sound. We’ll do everything we can to make sure she and Maria stay that way.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for helping. I’ve got a little money saved. I can pay you the rest over time, if you’re okay with that.” Mac seemed much more comfortable with Joe.

  Joe’s gaze swept to Brady and back. “This one’s on us.” He stepped back. “First order of business is getting you and Maria out of here and someplace where we can protect you.”

  “Where is Maria?” Brady felt guilty for not asking before now.

  “She’s with Nick. He’s taking good care of her. Oh, by the way, I offered him a job, so he’s coming home with us to check it out.” Joe turned to go. “I know for a fact you don’t need my help getting dressed, so I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Walker was close on his heels. Mac grinned and got up to leave also.

  Brady grabbed her hand. “Everything all right? Anything I should know about?”


  “Everything’s great.” Her smile looked forced.

  He could tell by the way her expression closed up that she wasn’t being totally honest. “I wish you’d level with me, Mac.” He reached to toy with a lock of hair that had fallen forward over her shoulder.

  She jerked away, and a spark of irritation flashed in her eyes. He was sure she was going to let him have it for something he’d done or said, but she stopped and got to her feet.

  In a way, he was sorry. He wanted whatever was bothering her out in the open. Mostly, he wanted her to trust him. But it was okay for now. He had time . . . and he wasn’t giving up. “Will you wait while I dress? We can walk down together.”

  She brushed her hair off her forehead and gave him a weak smile. “Walk? I happen to know your wheelchair is already waiting in the hallway.”

  He snickered, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Fine, then. You can push.”

  “I can do that, but don’t call me if you need help getting your pants on.” Mac strode slowly toward the door. Halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder and must have seen his lewd smile. She turned with hands on hips. “What now?”

  “Just thinking how much fun it would be to have your help getting them off.” He kept a straight face while his gaze dared her to look away.

  She didn’t, and her angelic smile projected a challenge of her own. He was proud of her. Her expression went from shocked to amused in only a few seconds. Then she turned and started walking again, and her sweet voice drifted back. “Get your ass dressed, Brady.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  NO POINTS FOR good intentions.

  For at least the hundredth time since pausing outside Brady’s room on her way back from the cafeteria, Mac berated herself for not simply walking away. Instead, her attention had been riveted on the tale of Somali pirates and kidnapping victims, related softly in Brady’s low voice. Intrigued and curious, she’d stepped closer to listen, enthralled . . . and then stunned.