Luke shoved Laura down behind the car, his hand covering her head. “Friends of yours?”

“I don’t know,” she said on a gasp of air, the shock of her words telling him she was being honest. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me.” He lifted his head an inch. And was rewarded with another round of rifle fire. “Somebody doesn’t like you being here, sweetheart.”

She tried to peek around the car’s bumper, but he held her down. Glaring up at him, she whispered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure they aren’t shooting at you?”

“That is a possibility,” he said on a growl. “I’ve made a lot of enemies lately.”

“Anybody in particular?”

Luke thought about the laundry list of sins he’d committed in the name of grief. “We don’t have that long. I have to get you out of here.”

She seemed to like that idea. “So…how do you plan to do that?”

LENORA WORTH

has written more than forty books, most of those for Steeple Hill. She has freelanced for a local magazine, where she wrote monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for the local paper for five years. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-five years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks, sit in her garden and go shoe shopping.

The Soldier’s Mission
Lenora Worth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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“But by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken.”

—Proverbs 15:13

To my son Kaleb—a true heart hunter.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

He’d had the dream again.

The stifling desert air burned hot, dirty and dry. The acrid smell of charred metal and scorched wires mixed with the metallic, sickly sweet smell of blood all around him. The sound of rapid-fire machine guns mingled with the screams of pain as, one by one, the men in his unit fell. He saw the horror of a landmine exploding against the jagged rocks of the craggy mountainside where they’d been penned down for forty-eight hours. One misstep and three of his men gone in a flash of searing fire and ear-shattering explosions. The others were taken out as the insurgents fought to the finish.

Then, the eerie sound of a deathly silence as the shooting stopped…and even after all of Luke’s efforts to save his wounded men, the moans and cries for help eased away…until there was nothing left but scorched dust lifting out over the rocks.

He was the only man left standing. But he wasn’t alone on that mountain. And he knew he’d be dead before dusk.

He’d jolted awake, gasping for air, a cold sweat covering his body, his hands shaking, grasping for his machine gun.

Luke “Paco” Martinez sat up and pushed at his damp hair then searched for the glowing green of the digital clock. 6:00 a.m. Old habits died hard. And a good night’s sleep was always just beyond his reach.

Barefoot, his cotton pajama bottoms dragging on the cool linoleum of the tiny trailer’s floor, Luke went straight to the coffeepot and hit the brew button. And while he waited for the coffee, he stared at the lone bottle of tequila sitting on the window seal.

Stared and remembered the dream, the nightmare, that wouldn’t let him find any rest.

Looking away from the tempting bottle of amber liquid, he instead focused on the distant mountains. The desert and mountains here in Arizona were a contrast against the rocky, unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan. Even though this high desert country was harsh and brutal at times, he could find comfort in the tall prickly saguaros and occasional thickets of Joshua trees and pinon pines growing all around his home. Here, he could run toward the mesas and the mountains and find solace, his questioning prayers echoing inside his head while his feet pounded on the dirt, his mind going numb with each step, each beat of his racing heart. Why was I spared, Lord?

In the dream, Luke screamed his own rage as he moved headlong into the fray, his M4 carbine popping what seemed like a never-ending round on the insurgents hidden in the hills.

In the dream, he always woke up before they killed him.

And because he did wake up and because he was alive to relive that horrible day over and over, he stared at the liquor bottle while he drank his coffee and told himself he could get through this.

Focus on the mountains, Paco.

That’s what his grandfather had told him the day he’d come here to wrestle his soul back from the brink. Focus on the mountains.

He was better now, six months after coming home to Arizona. He was getting better each and every day, in spite of the nightmares. He’d even gone on a few short-term missions for CHAIM, the secret organization he’d been a member of since before he’d joined the army.

He was better now. No more drunken binges, no more fights in restaurants and bars. Not as much pain. The army might not believe that, but his fellow CHAIM agents did, thankfully.

He’d be okay, Luke told himself. He just needed a little more time. And a lot more prayers.

So he drained his coffee and put on his running clothes and headed out into the early morning chill of the ever-changing desert, away from the little trailer that was his home now, away from the nightmares and the memories.

And away from that tempting bottle of golden relief.

She couldn’t get his voice out of her head.

Laura Walton thought about the man she’d come to the desert to find. The man everyone was worried about. The man who, a few weeks ago, had called the CHAIM hotline in the middle of the night.

“My father died in Vietnam,” the grainy, low voice said over the phone line. “My brother was wounded in Desert Storm. He’s in a wheelchair now. And I just got back from Afghanistan. Lost my whole unit. Lost everyone. I think I need to talk to somebody.”

Laura had been on call that night, volunteering to man the hotline that CHAIM held open for all of its operatives, the world over.

But only one call had come to the Phoenix hotline on that still fall night. One call from a man who was suffering a tremendous amount of survivor’s guilt.

Laura understood this kind of guilt. She didn’t have survivor’s guilt, but her own guilt ate away at her just the same. She’d lost a patient recently. A young patient who’d taken his own life. She’d failed the teenager.

She didn’t want to fail Luke Martinez.

The soldier’s tormented words, spoken with such raw pain, had stayed with her long after the man had hung up.

Which he did, immediately after confessing that he needed to talk.

It hadn’t been easy convincing her CHAIM supervisors in Phoenix to let her go through case files and match the man to the words, then come to this remote spot near the Grand Canyon to find Luke “Paco” Martinez. Nor had it been easy taking time away from the clinic where she worked as a counselor to Christians suffering all sorts of crises.

But this crisis trumped all the rest. This man needed help. Her help. And somehow, in her guilt-laden mind, Laura had decided this was a sign from God to redeem her. She had to find this man. So she’d traced his cell number to this area.

So here she sat in a dump of a roadside café called The Last Stop, hoping she’d find the illusive Paco Martinez, also known as “The Warrior”. Fitting name, Laura thought now as she dared to take another sip of the too-dark, too-strong coffee the stoic old man at the counter had poured for her. While she relied on the tip she’d received about Luke coming here every morning for breakfast, Laura went back over his file.

The army neither confirmed nor denied it, but Luke Martinez was reported to be some sort of Special Forces soldier—a shadow warrior—as they were often called. And while the elite Delta Force didn’t put a lot of emphasis on rank, preferring to use code names or nicknames instead of stating rank, from what she could glean Martinez was a hero who’d been the lone survivor of a highly secretive mission to rescue two American soldiers trapped behind enemy lines in Afghanistan.

Everything about the mission had gone bad. Luke’s team of men had been dropped by helicopter onto the mountain with orders to find the two soldiers and bring them home. After taking one outpost and locating the two badly beaten soldiers, Luke’s team had made it back to the pickup spot to wait on a helicopter out. But the enemy had advanced behind them and taken out all of Luke’s men, including the two his team has rescued. Things got fuzzy after that, but according to the rumors swirling around, The Warrior had managed not only to escape the men who tried to take him hostage, but he’d killed all of them in the process. And he refused to leave that mountain until the rescue team had recovered all of his men.

Except the one who’d seen all of them die. Luke Martinez had survived and for that, he was suffering mightily.

So he’d come home an unknown hero—that was the code of Special Forces—but Martinez didn’t want to be a hero, didn’t care that most would never know what he’d tried to do on that mountaintop. He was still in pain, still reeling from losing his team members. Deep inside, he was having a crisis. Post-traumatic stress over losing his men and for what he considered his failure—not bringing the stranded soldiers back safely.

That had caused a bout of serious drinking and many hours spent in jail cells and later with stress counselors and army specialists.

As well as CHAIM counselors such as Laura. His CHAIM team had stood by Luke, with one stipulation. He had to go to their remote retreat center in Ireland— Whelan Castle—for some serious debriefing and counseling sessions. And hopefully, to find some peace.

Luke had agreed. And he’d improved after his three months in Ireland. Then he’d come home to Arizona to rest. But he’d been called out on a mission in Texas to help Shane Warwick, known as The Knight, guard and protect prominent Texas socialite Katherine Atkins.

According to the official report, Luke had done a good job backing up Warwick and they’d brought down not only the woman who was trying to kill Katherine, but a ruthless oil-smuggling cartel to boot.

But this late night phone call had come after Luke had returned from Texas.

Which brought Laura back to the here-and-now. And this stand-on-its-own-legs coffee.

Laura motioned to the old man behind the counter, finding the courage to ask him the one question she’d come here to ask. “Excuse me, sir, do you know a man named Luke Martinez?”

The old man with the silver-black braid going down his back didn’t respond to her question. Instead he just stared at her with such opaque eyes, Laura felt as if the man could see into her very soul.

“Sir?”

Finally the man shuffled up to the counter, his tanned, aged skin reminding Laura of one of the craggy mountain faces beyond the desert. He wore a white cotton button-down shirt that hung like a tunic on his body, giving him the look of someone on their way to a fiesta.

Before she could ask the question again, he leaned forward, his frown as stand-up as the coffee. “Would you like some pie with that coffee?”

Surprised, Laura shook her head. “Ah, no thanks. I had a granola bar in the car. About the man I’m looking for—”

“Can’t help you there,” the old man replied, turning before Laura could finish the sentence.

But the old man didn’t need to help her. The rickety screen door flapped open and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rising, felt his eyes on her even before she looked into the aged mirror running along the back wall and saw his reflection there. Completely paralyzed with confusion and doubt, she lowered her gaze then heard that distinctive voice without turning to face him.

“I’ll take some pie, Grandfather.” He advanced toward Laura. “And while you’re getting my pie, I’ll ask this pretty lady why she’s trying so hard to find me.”

Luke stood perfectly still, his senses on edge while he analyzed the woman sitting at the counter. Her brown hair fell around her face and shoulders in soft waves. She wore a sensible beige lightweight sweater, a faded pair of jeans and hiking boots. Interesting. He could smell her perfume, a mixture of sweet flowers and vanilla. Nice.

Then she turned to face him and Luke’s gaze caught hers, the deep blue of her eyes reminding him of a mountain sky just before dusk. The look in those eyes amused him even while it destroyed him. She was afraid of him. And she probably had good reason.

“Mr. Martinez?”

Her voice was soft but firm. She quickly recovered from her first glimpse, Luke noted. She got points for that, at least. Most people just ran the other way when he scowled at them.

“Paco,” he replied. “That’s what everyone around here calls me.”

She reached out a dainty hand, her nails clean and painted with a clear sparkle of polish, her fingers devoid of rings. “I’m Laura Walton.”

Luke took her hand for a second then let it go, her perfume warming his fingers. “Okay. You already know me and now I know your name. Why are you here?”

She leaned in then glanced around the nearly empty diner. “I’m…from CHAIM.”

He liked the way she pronounced it—“Chi-Im”, with the CH sounding more like a K using the Hebrew enunciation. He did not like that she was here.

Luke pushed a hand through his hair and sat down beside her, the weight of his body causing the old spinning stool to squeak and groan. “Coffee, Grandfather, please. And two pieces of buttermilk pie.”

“I don’t want pie.”

Luke didn’t argue with her. “Make that one piece and two forks, Grandfather.” He waited for his pretending-not-to-be-interested grandfather to bring the requested food. Then he shoved one fork at her and took his own to attack the creamy yellow-crusted pie. “Eat.”

She looked down at the plate then picked up the fork. “I don’t eat sweets.”

“Try it.”

Luke took his time eating his own side of the pie. Then he sipped the dark brew, his gaze hitting at hers in the old, pot-marked mirror running behind the cluttered counter. “Now, why are you here?”

She chewed a nibble of pie then swallowed, her eyes opening big while she slanted a gaze toward him. “One of your friends was concerned.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“The Knight,” she said on a low whisper.

“Just saw him a few weeks ago.”

“I know. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Luke knew she wasn’t telling him the whole story. He’d talked to Shane Warwick two days ago. The man was crazy in love and making big plans for his upcoming Texas spring wedding. Shane was going to repeat the vows he’d spoken in England—to the same woman he’d married in England. He’d called Luke to invite him to the wedding but Shane had asked Luke how he was doing. Polite conversation or pointed inquiry?

“Who are you?” he asked, this time all the smile gone out of the question. “And don’t lie to me, lady.”

Laura swallowed down more coffee, hoping it would give her more courage. “I told you, I’m from CHAIM.”

“Who really sent you?”

Laura couldn’t hide the truth. “I…I came on my own. I mean, I got clearance to come but I asked to come and see you.”

His smile was so quick and full of stealth, she almost missed it. But if he ever did really smile, Laura believed it would do her in for good. The man was an interesting paradox of good-looking coupled with dangerous and scary. His dark hair, longer than army regulations allowed since he was usually undercover, sliced in damp inky lines across his scarred face and around his muscled neck. His eyes were onyx, dark and rich and unreadable. His skin was as aged and marked as tanned leather. It rippled over hard muscle and solid strength each time he moved. He wore a black T-shirt and soft-washed jeans over battered boots. And he smelled fresh and clean, as if he’d just stepped out of a secret waterfall somewhere.

His gaze cut from her to the mirror, watching, always watching the door of the diner.

“Why did you feel you had to come and see me?”

Laura prided herself on being honest. So with a swallow and a prayer, she said, “Because you called me—on the CHAIM hotline—late one night. You said you needed someone to talk to. So I’m here.”

Luke lowered his head, the shame of that phone call announcing how weak he’d felt that night. He’d had the dream again, maybe because he had just returned from Texas and more death and dishonesty. Maybe because he would always have the dream and he’d always feel weak and guilty and filled with such a self-loathing that it took his breath away and made him want to drink that whole bottle of tequila sitting on the windowsill.

“I shouldn’t have called,” he said, the words hurting and tight against his throat muscles. “You didn’t have to come here, Ms. Walton. I’m fine now.”

She went from being intimidated to being professional with the blink of her long lashes. “You didn’t sound fine that night. I called Shane Warwick and he arranged permission for me to come and see you. I live in Phoenix.”

Luke whirled on the stool, his face inches from hers. “Then go back to Phoenix and leave me alone.”

“But…you…shouldn’t be alone. I’m a counselor. You can trust me and you can talk to me about anything. Even if you’ve slipped up and had a drink—”

“Leave. Now,” Luke said, grabbing her by the arm.

“But—”

“I haven’t had a drink in four months and I don’t need you here. All I need right now is to be left alone.”

He saw the concern in her eyes, saw the hesitation in her movements. She wasn’t going to leave without a fight.

Luke glanced toward his grandfather. The old man’s face was set in stone, as always. But Luke could see the hope shining in the seventy-nine-year-old’s black eyes.

He didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather, but Luke didn’t want this woman hovering over him, trying to get inside his head, either.

“I’ll take you back to your car,” he said, guiding her with a push toward the door.

Laura Walton shot a look at him over her shoulder. “I have to make sure you’re ready to come back to CHAIM full-time now that you’re back from the Middle East and out of the army.”

“I’m ready,” Luke said on a strained breath. Why had he dialed that number that night? Now he had trouble here in the form of a dark-haired female. A pretty, sweet-smelling woman with big blue eyes and an academic, analyzing mind. The worst kind.

“Could we have a talk?” she asked, digging her heels in with dainty force.

“We just had a talk and now we’re done.”

He had her out the door, the warmth of the morning sun searing them to the dirt-dry parking lot. “Where’s your car?”

“Over there.” She pointed to a small red economy car. “It’s a rental. My car is in the shop.”

Luke tugged her forward until they were beside the car. “Then you can be on your way back to the rental counter. Have a nice trip back to Phoenix.”

She turned to stare up at him, her eyes so imploring and so blue, he had to blink.

And during that blink, a bullet ricocheted off the windshield of her car, shattering glass all around them in a spray of glittering white-hot slivers.

TWO

Paco shoved Laura down behind the car, his hand covering her head. “Friends of yours?”

“I don’t know,” she said on a gasp of air, the shock of her words telling him she was being honest. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me.” He lifted his head an inch. And was rewarded with another round of rifle fire. “Somebody doesn’t like you being here, sweetheart.”

She tried to peek around the car’s bumper, but he held her down. Glaring up at him, she whispered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure they aren’t shooting at you?”

“That is a possibility,” he said on a growl. “I’ve made a lot of enemies lately.”

“Anybody in particular?”

Paco thought about the laundry list of sins he’d committed in the name of grief. “We don’t have that long. I have to get you out of here.”

She seemed to like that idea. “So how do you plan to do that?”

“Good question.” Paco pulled his sunglasses out of his T-shirt pocket and shoved them on then slowly lifted so he could scan the surrounding desert and mountains. “If it’s a sniper, we’re stuck here. If we move, they could take us out in a split second. But if they’re just using a twelve-gauge or some other sort of rifle, we might have a chance at making a run for the café.”

“My windshield is shattered,” she said, her tone sensible. “That means they could do the same to us if we move.”

“True. But a moving target is a lot harder to pinpoint than a parked car.”

“Maybe they weren’t aiming at us.”

Paco glanced around the empty parking lot. “We’re the only customers right now.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Doesn’t have an enemy anywhere in the world.” Paco held her there, the scent of her perfume merging with the scent of dirt and grim and car fumes. “And if I know my grandfather, he’s standing at the door of the café with his Remington.” He rolled over to pick up a rock. Then with a quick lift of his arm, he threw it toward the small porch of the rickety restaurant.

His grandfather opened the dark screen door then shouted. “One shooter, Paco. Coming from the west. Want me to cover you?”

Paco took his grandfather’s age and agility into consideration. “Only if you don’t expose yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you sure he can handle this?” Laura asked, her words breathy and low.

“Oh, yeah.” Paco grabbed her, lifting her to face him. “Now listen to me. We’re going to make a run for the porch. Grandfather will cover us. You’ll hear gunshots but just keep running.”

Fright collided with sensibility in her eyes. “What if I get shot?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t protect me and yourself, too.”

“Yes, I can,” Paco said, images from his time in special ops swirling in slow motion in his head. “I can. But you have to stay to my left and you have to run as fast as you can.”

“Okay. I ran track in college.”

“Good. That’s good. I need you to stay low and sprint toward that door on the count of three.”

She did as he said, crouching to a start. Paco counted and prayed. “One, two, three.”

And then they took off together while his grandfather stepped out onto the porch and shot a fast round toward the flash in the foothills about a hundred yards away. Paco put himself between her and the shooter and felt the swish of bullets all around his body. Then he pushed her onto the porch and into the door, holding it open for his grandfather to step back inside.

The old man quickly shut the door then turned to stare at Paco and Laura, his rifle held up by his side. “Would either of you care to explain this?”

Laura’s gaze moved from the old man to Paco. “I don’t know who’s out there. As far as I know, no one wants me dead.” Watching Paco, she could believe the man might have a few enemies—probably several heartbroken women among them. “What about you?” she asked, wondering what was going on inside his head.

His grandfather chuckled at that. “Only about half the population of Arizona, for starters.”

“Thanks.” Paco replied with a twisted grin. “Grandfather, I forgot my manners, what with being shot at and all. This is Laura Walton. She thinks I need her help.”

“Do you?” the old man asked, putting his gun down to reach out a gnarled hand to Laura. “Nice to meet you. Sorry you almost got shot. I’m Wíago—Walter Rainwater.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Laura said, her breath settling down to only a semi-rapid intake. The weirdness of the situation wasn’t lost on her but she was too timid to shout out her true feelings. Turning back to Paco, she asked, “What do we do now?”

Paco didn’t answer. Instead, he went through a door toward the back of the café then returned with a mean-looking rifle. “You wait here with Grandfather.”

Walter put the Closed sign on the door. “It was a slow morning anyway.”

“It’s always a slow morning around here,” Paco quipped. “Even when we aren’t being shot at.”

Laura twisted her fingers in Paco’s sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out there to track that shooter.”

“But he might kill you.”

“Always a chance, but don’t worry about me too much. I think I can handle this.”

Laura didn’t know why it seemed so important to keep him safe. Maybe because she hadn’t had a chance to get inside his head and help him over his grief. Or maybe because while he frightened her, he also intrigued her and she’d like to explore that scenario.

Shocked at her wayward thoughts, she chalked it up to being nearly killed and said, “Well, be careful. I have to give a full report on you.”

“I’m used to having full reports done on me,” he replied, his dark eyes burning with a death wish kind of disregard. “If I bite the bullet, you can just tell the powers that be that I died fighting.”

Laura ventured a glance at his grandfather and saw the worry in the old man’s eyes. That same concern strengthened her spine and gave her the courage to reason with him. “But we don’t know who you’re fighting this time.”

“I’ve never known who I’ve been fighting.” Paco graced her with a long, hard stare before he pivoted and headed toward the back of the building. “Stay put and lock both doors. Don’t come out until you hear me calling.”

Paco crept through the flat desert, willing himself to blend in with the countryside. The black shirt wasn’t very good camouflage but it would have to do. If he could make it around the back way and surprise the gunman, he’d have a chance of figuring out who was out there and why.

So he did a slow belly-crawl through the shrubs and thickets, careful to watch for snakes and scorpions. Stopping to catch his breath underneath a fan palm, he held still and did a scan of the spot where his grandfather had indicated the shooter might be hiding. A cluster of prickly pear cacti stood spreading about four feet high and wide alongside a cropping of Joshua trees centered on the rise of the foothills leading toward a small mesa. But Paco didn’t see anything or anyone moving out there.

Thinking maybe the culprit was hiding much in the same way as he, Paco slid another couple of feet, careful to be as silent as possible. The sun had moved up in the sky and even though it was November, the desert’s temperature had moved right along with it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and poured down his face. His shirt was now damp and dusty. He could taste the sand, feel it in his eyes. For a minute, he was back on that mountainside, waiting, just waiting for the enemy to make a move.

But fifteen minutes later, Paco hadn’t seen any signs of human life in this desolate desert. So he threw a clump of rocks toward the thicket and waited for a hail of bullets to hit him.

Nothing.

Grunting, Paco lifted to a crouch, his gun aimed at the Joshua trees a few feet ahead. He was a trained sniper so he didn’t think the other guy would stand a chance. But then, he’d been wrong before.

Laura hated the silence of this place.

Walter Rainwater didn’t talk. Not at all. If she asked a question, he’d answer “Yes”, “No” or “We’ll wait for Paco.”

She was tired of waiting for Paco. So she got up to look out the window for the hundredth time. “He should have been back by now.”

A hand on her arm caused her to spin around. Tugging Laura toward a booth, Paco said, “We need to talk.”

Surprised and wondering more than a little bit how he’d snuck up on her, she pulled a notebook from the shoulder bag she’d managed to hang on to in all the chaos. Maybe the episode outside had triggered something in Paco.

But she was wrong. “Put that away,” he said, pushing at the notebook. “We’re not talking about me. I need to ask you a few questions. We have to figure out who’s trying to kill you.”

Laura took in his dirty shirt and the sweat beads on his skin. “Did you find someone?”

He shook his head, took the water his grandfather sat on the table. “No. Whoever was there is gone now. I found shell casings and tracks, footprints out toward the highway.” Then he handed her a dirty business card. “I did find this.”

Laura looked down at the piece of paper then gulped air. “That’s one of my cards.”

His smirk held a hint of accusation. “Yeah, saw your name right there on it. But nothing after that. I guess once we managed to get inside here, they left. But I don’t think they dropped this card by accident. They wanted you to know they were here.”

“But why?”

Instead of answering, he drank the water down, giving Laura plenty of time to take in his slinky, spiky bangs and slanted unreadable eyes while she wondered about why the shooter had left her business card.

He put the glass down and met her gaze head-on. “I think you know why. Ready to tell me the truth?”

“Me?” Shocked, Laura drew back, her head hitting the vinyl of the booth. “I told you as far as I know, no one’s after me.”

Paco leaned across the table, his expression as black as his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, someone is after you. Another inch and your rental car’s windshield would still be intact. But you’d probably be dead.” He sat back, his big hands centered against the aged oak of the table. “Now, think real hard and tell me if you’ve had any hard-case patients lately.”

“None, other than you,” she replied, the triumph she should have felt disappearing at the ferocious glare in his eyes.

“Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to come here. And up until about an hour ago, no one cared about me or what I’m doing. This place is about as remote as you can get. So I figure someone tailed you here and waited for the right opportunity to shoot at you. And that means you’ve probably got an unstable client out there with an ax to grind. So quit insulting me and think real hard about some of the people you’ve counseled lately.” He leaned over the table again, his tone soft and daring. “Besides me.”

Laura stared across at him, wondering how he could stay so calm when they were sitting here with a possible sniper still on the loose. “I don’t have a clue—”

“Think about it,” he said in that deep, low voice that sent ripples of awareness down her spine. “How many people have you talked to in say, the last three or four months?”

“Too many to tell,” she retorted. “I’d have to have access to my files.”

“You mean by computer?”

“Yes.” She tapped her big purse. “I didn’t bring my laptop with me. Besides, I can’t download every case history I have on file.”

Paco pulled a slick phone out of his pocket. “What if I get us some help?”

“But no one has access to my patient files. That’s confidential.”

“I know someone who can break into those files.”

She shook her head. “I can’t allow that. My clients trust me.”

“That won’t matter if you’re dead.”

The man certainly cut right to the chase.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Kissie Pierre. You’ve probably heard of her. She keeps computer records on all the CHAIM agents and she keeps files on anyone who has any dealings with those agents. And that includes counselors.”

“The Woman at the Well. But she can’t help us with this type of thing.”

“If you give her some names, she’ll be able to crack your files and compare notes.”

“Confidentially?”

“Yes, completely confidential, I promise.”

“Legal?”

“As legal as we can make it. This is an emergency. But if you think you can remember without us going to that extreme then talk to me.”

Laura preferred that method to hacking into private files. “Let me make a list of names. Maybe that will bring back some memories.”

“Good.” Paco grabbed her notebook. “Got a pen?”

She found a pen in her purse then handed it over to him. Walter passed by with phantom quietness, his rifle held at his chest. “Nobody coming to call. I think we’re in the clear.”

Paco looked at the door. “Keep an eye out, Grandfather. They might try to sneak up on us again.”

Walter nodded, his solid presence a comfort to Laura.

Paco and his grandfather were close. She could tell by the respect Paco offered the old man and by the way they teased each other, both serious and stoic but with a trace of mirth in their eyes.

“Are you thinking?” Paco asked, his gaze cutting to the windows and the door. “We don’t have much time. They might decide to come back for another visit. And bring friends along.”

Laura sank back, terrified of that prospect. “I’m a pastoral counselor. I mostly deal with church members with marriage problems, those who’ve lost a loved one, or teenagers who are going through angst. Things like that. And CHAIM agents and workers, of course.”

“Of course. Anyone who stands out in your mind?”

She put her head down, bringing her right arm up to settle on the table, then leaned her chin against her fist, a dark thought creeping into her mind. In that brief moment, Laura thought of only one possible suspect.

“About a month ago, we had a teenager come to the clinic. He was upset about something his father had done.”

“Go on.”

Not wanting to divulge the particulars, she shook her head. “I can’t talk about it—except that the teen was traumatized by what had happened. I counseled him, told him how to get help from the authorities next time it happened. He didn’t want to report the incident, but I could tell he was afraid. He was a lot stronger and calmer after our first couple of sessions, though. Then he didn’t come back.”

“Did he seem angry at you?”

“No, he was angry at the world.” And his father. The man had been extremely demanding and controlling. How could she tell Paco this without getting upset or giving away personal information? Or her acute sense of failure. “The young man killed himself about two weeks after he’d talked to me.”

Paco scribbled some notes. “What was his name?”

“Is this necessary?”

“We have to assume, yes.”

“Kyle Henner. He was sixteen.”

She watched as Paco pulled up a number on his phone. “Kissie, it’s Paco. Yeah, I’m okay. I need you to run a name for me. See what you can find out about a kid from Phoenix named Kyle Henner.” He held the phone away. “Father’s name?”

Laura hesitated then said, “Lawrence Henner. He’s a big-time developer of some sort. He owns a lot of different companies. Lots of money and lots of power. He was devastated about what happened.”

She didn’t add that the man was also a walking time bomb who’d verbally abused not only his son but his wife, too. His wife left him after Kyle’s suicide. And now that she thought about it, Lawrence Henner was just the kind of man to blame someone else for his son’s death.

Someone like her, maybe?

Paco finished his conversation with Kissie then turned to Laura. “She’ll get back to us. And if you think about anything else you can tell me about this kid, let me know.”

“His father is ruthless,” she said, her nerves sparkling with apprehension. “But I don’t think he’d try to shoot me. He’d just find a way to ruin my life, probably.”

“Or if he’s that powerful, he could send someone else to shoot you.”

She swallowed back her worries. “Last I heard, Mr. Henner had left the country.”

“That could be a red flag.”

“Or maybe he needed to get away from everything in the same way you did?”

He gave her a hard stare. “Maybe. Only I’m not the one out there in the hills with a gun, now, am I?”

Laura shivered at his words. No, he wasn’t out there trying to shoot people. But if he didn’t unload some of his own grief soon, he could be the next one.

How in the world could she help Paco Martinez deal with post-traumatic stress if someone was trying to finish her off before she even got started? That thought caused her to gasp and grab at Paco’s hand.

“Did you remember something else?”

“No, but I just realized something.”

His dark eyes swirled with questions. “Spit it out.”

“What if that person out there was trying to stop me from talking to you?”

THREE

She had a point there. And she had already suggested he might be the target. But killing her for talking to him—or to keep her from talking to him—that was a different twist. Paco couldn’t deny he had people gunning for him on so many levels. But to try and take out a pretty, innocent woman just because she was trying to help him. Who would want to do that? Maybe the shooter had been after him to begin with. That made more sense.

But he’d gone on a long run early this morning. It would have been easy for someone to spot him and take him out there in the desert. And by the time anybody found him, the vultures and other predators would have finished him off, anyway. No, this shooting had been timed for her arrival, by Paco’s way of thinking.

“So maybe I should be asking you all these questions,” she said, her expression bordering on smug. “I’ve read your case file. You’ve had quite a career in both special ops and with CHAIM. Both classified, of course, but I know things went bad on your last mission in Afghanistan. That’s a lot of stress for any one man.”

Paco wanted to laugh out loud, except a burning rage kept him from cracking a smile. That and the way she’d changed from timid to tempest by turning the tables on him. “You have no idea, darlin’.”

Her expression turned sympathetic, which only made things worse. He could handle anything but pity. “I think I do. That’s why you called me that night.”

He got up, stomping around the small café, his gaze hitting on an old shelf full of several carved wooden figurines of warriors astride horses his grandfather had created to sell right along refrigerator magnets, greasy hamburgers and ice-cold soft drinks. Grandfather Rainwater was content with his life.

Paco, however, was still struggling with his.

And this perky little counselor lady wasn’t helping matters. Neither was being shot at so early in the day.

Remembering his midnight-hour shout-out, he said, “I shouldn’t have called the hotline that night. False alarm.”

“You called for a reason. Maybe someone else out there thinks you have a problem.”

Paco turned to lean over the table, glad when she slid into the corner of the booth. Glad and a little ashamed that he’d stoop to a frowning intimidation to make her go away. “You wanna know why I called that night? Really want to know?” He didn’t wait for her to nod. Pushing so close he could see the swirling violet-blue of her eyes, he said, “I wanted to take a drink. I wanted to get so drunk I could sleep for a week without nightmares or guilt or regret.”

He lifted up and sank back down, the shock in her vivid eyes undoing him. “But I promised that old man in the kitchen back there that I was done with drunken brawls and feeling sorry for myself. I respect him and I didn’t want to let him down. You see, he lost his son—in-law—my father—to the Vietnam War. And you probably know about my brother—he’s in a wheelchair, compliments of Desert Storm. But…it’s hard sometimes, in the middle of the night. So I wanted a drink, okay. But I didn’t take that drink. Instead I prayed really hard and in a moment of sheer desperation, I dialed the number on the card Warwick gave me and blurted out all of my frustrations to you.”

Hitting a finger hard on the table, he said, “I hope you’re satisfied now. All clear?”

“Do you still want to drink?” she asked in a silky-strong whisper, her wide-eyed expression daring him to deny it.

Paco looked down at her, saw the strength pushing away the fear in her eyes, the solid concern out-maneuvering the shock on her face. He had to admire her spunk. His grandfather was the only person in the world who never backed down when it came to Paco and his moods.

Maybe he’s finally met someone else worthy of that kind of status. Someone else he could learn to respect. And someone else who was willing to go the distance with him.

“Yes, I still want a drink,” he said, surprised at this whole conversation. “But I won’t take another one. I go to my AA meetings on a regular basis. I’m better now, I told you. So let’s focus on the problem we have here, right now.”

The doubtful stare she gave him implied she didn’t believe him but she nodded her head in understanding. And right now, Paco couldn’t worry about what she thought.

“Are you driving back to Phoenix today?” he asked, pulling her up out of the booth.

The confusion in her eyes slammed head-on into his own conflicting feelings. “No. I have a hotel room at the foot of the Grand Canyon.” Looking sheepish, she said, “I thought if I couldn’t find you I’d do a little hiking.”

He drew in air, thinking it a blessing she’d found him. Just the thought of her alone near the Canyon with a lunatic tracking her sent fingers of dread racing across his spine. “Does anyone know where you are?”

“My parents and my supervisor at the clinic.”

“Would they tell anyone else?”

“They might mention I’m at the Canyon. I didn’t exactly post what I was doing. Just told them I’d be gone for a few days on a trip to locate a client.”

A knock at the restaurant door caused Paco to spin around. His grandfather came out of the kitchen. “It’s a delivery man bringing fresh produce,” Walter said, waving Paco away. “Sorry. They usually pull around to the back.”

Paco watched as Walter headed to open the door, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. His gaze hit Laura’s, both of them realizing too late—

“Grandfather!”

Paco went into motion, rushing toward the door. But Walter already had it open, a smile on his face. “Joseph, why didn’t you—”

A fist in Walter’s face knocked the old man back onto the floor. Walter hit his head on the corner of a bench as he went down. Then he didn’t move.

Paco heard Laura’s scream even while he rushed the man at the door, taking the intruder by surprise, one hand pressing down on the man’s weapon hand and the other one on his throat. With a grunt and heavy pressure on the wrist, Paco forced the man to drop the handgun he was carrying. But his opponent didn’t let that stop him. He reached around with his other hand and tried to bring Paco down. Paco countered with an uppercut to the man’s chin. Then they went down with fists popping against skin. The man was big and solid but Paco didn’t let up until he had him rolled over faceup. Struggling to hold the man down, Paco memorized his face—scarred and brutal—just before he slammed his fist back into it.

Laura ran to Walter. “Mr. Rainwater? Are you all right?” Paco’s grandfather didn’t respond. Blood poured out of his nose and his breathing was shallow. Deciding the best thing she could do right now was to help Paco, she searched for a weapon and saw Walter’s rifle leaning against the kitchen door. Without thinking, Laura grabbed it, trying to focus on the man who’d managed to get in and knock out Paco’s grandfather. When Paco rolled the man over and begin hitting him in the face, she waited, her pulse flat-lining then spurting into overdrive. But the stranger reached up and managed to get his hands around Paco’s neck. Paco grunted, working to flip the man over. When that didn’t work, he tried hitting at the man again but he couldn’t break away. Pushing at the man’s thick arms, Paco finally managed to get his own fingers around the other man’s throat.

Then it became a battle of wills as both held tight, each trying to squeeze the life out of the other. She had to do something. If she didn’t stop this, Paco might not make it.

Laura raised the gun, her heart beating a prayer for strength. And a prayer for good eyesight. She’d come across the state to save Paco, not watch him die. She would have to shoot the intruder.

Paco knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Matched in sheer strength by the other man, he fought for control—and his life. With each grunt, each surge of renewed energy, he wrestled and pushed his fingers against the stranger’s thick throat muscles. If he could just find the right amount of pressure—

The room shook with a thundering roar and then the man holding Paco in a death grip went limp, his hands loosening and falling away, his expression going from determined and enraged to a surprised tranquility. Paco watched while the intruder’s bulging, hate-filled eyes closed and he fell back on the floor with a heavy thud. For a minute, Paco didn’t let go of his own frozen grip on the man’s throat. But the silence and his own fast-moving breath brought him out of his stupor.

Looking up and around, he caught at a hitched breath. “Laura?”

She stood with the shotgun aimed high, her whole body trembling. “I’m okay.”

Paco hopped up and stared down at the blood flowing from the stranger’s side. The man wasn’t breathing. Then he hurried to her. “Laura?”

“Your grandfather,” she said, pointing a shaking hand toward the floor. “Go check on him!”

Paco took the gun, prying it away from her white-knuckled fingers to carefully lower it to a table. Then he went into action.

“Grandfather?” Paco felt for a pulse, relief washing through him when he found a faint beat pumping inside his grandfather’s wrinkled neck. “Wíago, talk to me!” Turning Walter’s head, he saw blood on the floor then felt around until he found the deep gash on the old man’s skull. “He’s bleeding from his nose and he hit his head. We need to get him to a doctor.”

“I’ll call 911.”

Paco lifted up, torn between getting the dead man out of the way and taking care of his grandfather. He didn’t have a choice. His grandfather could die. They had to call for help.

“I’ll do it,” he told Laura. Thinking about the implications of the scene, he said, “I’ll have to explain this was self-defense.” He pulled out his phone and dialed, telling the operator to hurry. “My grandfather was attacked by an intruder and when he fell, he hit his head. He’s not responding. Yes, he has a pulse, but it’s weak.” He hurried to the man lying near the door and felt his pulse.

“And the intruder is dead. Yes, from a gunshot wound. Can you please send someone?”

After giving the dispatcher their location, he brought a blanket from the small den in the back and wrapped it around his grandfather, then checked him over again to be sure there were no other injuries. After doing everything he could to make Walter comfortable, Paco left the dead man where he was—afraid to disturb the scene. Then he finally turned to Laura.

And saw that she was about to fall into a heap on the floor.

“Laura,” he said, hurrying to her, wishing the nearest hospital wasn’t so far away. “Laura, are you sure you’re all right?”

She bobbed her head, her arms crossed around her midsection, her gaze locked on the gruesome site of the man by the door. “Is that man dead?”

He pulled her close, leveling his gaze on her until she looked at him. “Yes, he is. You saved my life.” He was as amazed by that as she seemed to be.

“I…I didn’t know what to do. I had to stop him…and I thought I’d shot you at first. Is your grandfather going to be okay?”

With each word, tears brimmed in her eyes until one lone drop moved down her right cheek. Paco reached up and caught the tear, keeping his gaze locked on her. “I hope so. I think he’s got a concussion and he’ll need stitches for the gash on his head. I’ve made him comfortable and the paramedics are on the way. But it’ll take them a few minutes. Let me check you over.”

She tried to push away and stumbled, her face deadly pale. “I’m okay. I…Paco, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Paco hurried her to the tiny bathroom in the back and waited at the door, keeping watch on his grandfather while he paced. When she came out a few minutes later, her skin was whitewashed with shock and she held a damp paper towel to her mouth.

“Better?” he asked, guiding her to a chair.

“I think so.” She looked up at him, her eyes as blue as a desert sky at midnight. “I’ve never killed anyone before. Now I know how you must feel.”

That statement punctured Paco’s heart. How could such an innocent woman ever know or understand the way he felt? How could she be so brave, coming here to find him simply because she was worried about him? How could she get herself caught up in something that was probably of his making, put herself on the line like that for him, when she didn’t even know him?

Before he could speak, she touched a trembling hand toward his heart. “I know what you were searching for that night, Paco.”

Paco swallowed back the lump in his throat, the sound of distant sirens echoing inside his head right along with the rising echo of his pulse. She’d called him Paco. That meant she trusted him now, meant he’d allowed her to get that close already.

“What then?” he asked, unable to stay quiet, unable to comprehend this whole morning.

“You were looking for your heart. You wanted your soul back.” She cleared her throat, her delicate hand warm on his chest, her gaze full of understanding and redemption. “I read a poem once where there was this heart hunter. He was searching for his own heart. He wanted to feel that warmth in his soul again. You know, that warmth that comes from faith and love and grace. And forgiveness. And so do you, I think. That’s something we can all understand, something everyone longs for.”

Paco lifted away, his head down. Grandfather always said there were no coincidences in life. He believed the Father knew all and saw all. Had God seen Paco’s pain that night, the struggle for his soul, the struggle he’d battled through between the Bible he’d clutched and the bottle that was trying to clutch him, all night long and well into the early light?

Had God sent Laura to him?

“We have to get you out of here,” he said in response, his thoughts too raw and fresh to express right now. He didn’t know how to voice his thoughts, even on a good day. “They’ll want a statement. Let me do all the talking. If they do ask you questions, just answer as briefly as possible. And be completely honest.”

She dropped her hand away. “I have to tell them I shot that man.”

Missing her warmth and needing to protect her, Paco said, “We could tell them I did it.”

“No, I won’t lie to them. And you said to be honest. I shot him because he was trying to kill you. That’s the truth.”

Paco knew she was right. They couldn’t lie. But he had a very bad feeling about this whole situation. And he knew this wasn’t over. Someone had sent a killer here two different times this morning. And they would keep coming until they hit their target.

He headed to the door to show the paramedics where to go and to greet the two officers pulling up outside. Then he glanced back at Laura to make sure she was holding up.

She gave him a wobbly half smile, her eyes still moist. Then she pushed at her hair and straightened her clothes, her head lifting as her eyes met his again.

And Paco had to wonder who in the world would want to hurt this woman?

She’d come here to help him, but in doing so she might have put herself in danger. Then she’d somehow managed to shoot a man in order to save Paco, which meant she was stronger than she looked. But that also meant she was now Paco’s responsibility.

He had to get his grandfather to a safe place and he had to protect this woman no matter what. Maybe in the process, he just might find that heart she thought he was searching for.

Or lose it completely to the woman who’d come with such an unexpected determination into his life.

FOUR

Paco went into action after the ambulance and the sheriff’s deputies left. Good thing the deputies knew his grandfather and him well enough to access the situation and keep it under wraps for now.

“I have to call my brother.” Touching a finger to his phone, he waited, his eyes never leaving Laura. “Hey, Buddy. It’s me, Paco. There’s been a break-in at the café. Grandfather was hurt.”

“Hurt? Is he okay?”

His brother’s worried question filtered over the line.

“He’s unconscious. Got knocked on the head. Listen, they took him to the regional hospital near Jacob Lake. I have a situation here, so I need you to go to the hospital and call me with a report.”

“What kind of situation?”

Paco huffed a breath. “I can’t explain right now.” Then he said on an urgent whisper, “I’m on the job.”

His brother’s silence told Paco Buddy was processing this. His older brother would understand and take action. “Can you talk?”

“Negative.”

“Will you call me?”

“Yes. Just go to Wíago and stay with him. Call me when you hear anything from the doctors. Or I’ll call you when I get things straight here.”

“Got it. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

Paco turned toward Laura. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t explain. He had enough to think about without having to report every detail to her. Seeing the distress in her eyes, he gently lifted her up. “You’ll be okay. This has become official now.”

She followed him without protest. Getting an argument from her would have eased Paco’s mind even if he didn’t want to hear it. She might be going into shock and that was the last thing he needed right now.

“Do you think the sheriff believed us?” she asked.

“I mean, he didn’t take me away. I thought he’d take me into custody after I told him what I’d witnessed and what happened.” She didn’t finish, didn’t state the obvious.

Paco did a scan of the road and the desert, careful to shield her by keeping her behind him. “I explained things to the sheriff. Self-defense. He’s a good friend of my grandfather’s and for that reason he trusted me and he’ll keep a lid on this for as long as possible. We both gave a statement and we’ve been cleared for travel.”

“Cleared?”

He shoved her into his truck and closed the door. Once he was inside and feeling confident that they weren’t being watched, he turned to her. “CHAIM clearance. For your safety, you’re in my custody until we figure this out. The sheriff knows how to reach me if he needs to talk to us. We always alert the locals when we’re on a case.”

“Oh, of course.”

Paco didn’t like her quietness but he let it ride for now while he watched the long, flat road and did a couple of quick searches of the desert on either side. When they turned off the dusty lane to his trailer, he slowed the truck.

“I live there,” he explained, pointing to the tiny white home on wheels. “I need to get some equipment and then we’re going to your hotel room to check it out.”

“All right.” She studied the travel trailer, her gaze moving between the RV and his face. “That’s not very big.”

“I don’t need much space.” Except the emotional kind, he thought, refusing to elaborate out loud.

She went silent again.

“Stay right here while I get some things,” he told her. Then he handed her a loaded handgun he kept in the glove compartment, removing the safety before he handed it to her. “Use this if you have to.”

Before she could protest, Paco was out the door and running toward the trailer.

Laura sat staring down at the gun. She’s just shot and killed a man and now she was holding a gun. What had become of her life, of her plans to help Luke Martinez?

Paco.

The man frightened her as much as he intrigued her. He was all muscle and male, all mad and mysterious. Not the kind of man to whom she was attracted. No, she went more for the button-down, preppy type. But then, that type hadn’t exactly been working out for her lately, come to think of it. Her last boyfriend hadn’t taken their break-up very well. And why was she even thinking along those lines anyway? She’d come here on a mission of mercy, her faith intact, her concern real.

And now, in the span of less than two hours, she’d been shot at and she’d killed a man. And she still didn’t understand who these people wanted to kill—her or Paco.

She looked out across the Painted Desert toward the mountains. They looked misty and solid as they hunched in watercolor shades of orange and mauve like sleeping giants off in the distance, the saguaros and fan palms stark and scattered across the arid vastness.

Who was out there?

Laura felt a chill in spite of the rising heat. She had to get out of this truck. She didn’t want Luke to be alone. And she didn’t want to be alone. They should stick together. She opened the door and hurried around to the back of the tiny trailer, her gaze taking in the canvas covered tented porch, a small grill and one lonely scarred lawn chair.

He didn’t need much space.

Except the desolate emptiness of a desert.

What had she gotten herself into?

Paco whirled when he heard footfalls on the rickety steps, his gun trained on the door.

“I told you to stay in the truck,” he shouted, relief washing over him. Relief followed by remorse. Laura was standing with one foot inside the door and the other one lowered on the steps, her gun shaking in her tiny hand.

“I was worried about you,” she said, her gaze sweeping the cramped kitchen. Lowering the gun to the step, she asked, “Are you always this messy?”

“I didn’t do this, sweetheart,” he replied, disgust making him harsh as he looked over the ruin of his home. Someone had gone through ever nook and cranny, without regard for clothing, dishes or paperwork.

“Apparently, I had a visitor this morning.” He touched a hand to something on the counter. “And they left yet another one of your business cards.”

She stepped away. “What? But why?”

At least that shocked her out of her fear again. Good. She needed to clear her head because they were just getting started with this thing.

“Good question,” he replied as he strapped on knives and guns, tugging weapons in his boots and underneath his shirt. “Either you have a fan, or someone is stalking you.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes coloring to a deep blue. “Oh, no. No, it can’t be.”

She fell back and turned to sit on the metal step. Paco quickly slid out the door and hopped around her then turned to face her. “Talk to me, beautiful.”

Laura put her head down in her hands. “I dated a guy for a few months, a while back. On the surface, he was a successful nice guy who said all the right things. But after a few months, things got weird and I broke it off. He started harassing me and I had to take out a restraining order. But he stopped bothering me about a month ago.”

Paco leaned down, one hand reaching to lift her head up. “Define ‘weird.’”

“After we broke up, he’d still call me and text me all day and night. He got really angry when I didn’t call him right back. I got a funny feeling—instincts I guess. I told him to quit pestering me. He didn’t take that very well. When he turned violent, I knew I’d made a big mistake. I think he suffered from paranoid delusional disorder.”

“Did he hurt you? Hit you?”

She looked away. “He slapped me once.”

Paco couldn’t tolerate men who hit women. “And?”

“And I reminded him that we were over, he left a note on my apartment door, threatening me, calling me a tease.” She looked up at Paco. “I never teased him or led him on about anything. I thought we were having a friendly relationship that might turn into something else. It didn’t turn into anything but…creepy. I told him he needed help. I even offered to find him a therapist, since I certainly couldn’t deal with him.”

“You think this might be the guy?”

“I don’t know. He stopped calling me after I took out the restraining order. I live in a secure building with a doorman, so everyone watched out for me. I would have known if he’d come back there.”

“What’s his name?”

She looked at the phone he’d pulled out of his pocket.

“Alex Whitmyer. He came from a prominent family. He was handsome and a bit narcissistic, which I figured out a little too late. I’m still embarrassed about it. I’m supposed to help people like him, but I was too caught up in the relationship to see he was sick. And he was very good at hiding his real personality.”

Paco wondered about that. Wasn’t she supposed to be able to read people? Maybe not with her heart, but with her head. Had she cared about this guy? “I’ll put in a call to Kissie. She can check him out in addition to the father of that kid you mentioned, too.”

“Mr. Henner,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d put my money on Alex. He was just strange enough to go all ballistic and decide to teach me a lesson.”

“But you didn’t know our intruder. Why would he send other people to do the deed if he’s the one stalking you?”

“He certainly could hire someone to scare me, but then so could Mr. Henner. Maybe it wasn’t Alex after all.”

He made the call to Kissie, giving her Alex Whitmyer’s name. After explaining what had happened, he said, “Looks like I’m on a case, Kissie-girl.”

“Paco, you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Not you, too,” he replied, closing his eyes. “I told Warwick I was doing okay.”

“Well, he’s so happy he just wants everyone else to feel the same,” Kissie said through a chuckle. “Me, I think you find your strength when you need it the most.”

“Well, then, we’re about to test that theory,” Paco replied. “Look, about Alex Whitmyer.” He looked at the card. “He dated Laura Walton. Counselor. Works for CHAIM-approved clinic in Phoenix. Except right now, she’s with me. I’m sure you’ve been updated on the shooting here this morning since I had to get clearance from both the sheriff and CHAIM to move the client.”

“Heard all about it. We’ve got your back, Paco. And I’ve heard of Laura’s work at the Phoenix Rising Counseling Center. But how in the world did she wind up with you?”

“She thinks I need counseling for some strange reason.”

“I know Laura,” Kissie said. “We’ve met at some of the company get-togethers. Nice girl. And if anyone can help you, it’d be Laura. Do you need help?”

Paco grunted. “Why is everyone asking me that?”

“We care about you. What about the get-together at Eagle Rock. You gonna be there?”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Paco replied. “Since when did CHAIM start having company functions anyway?”

“You’ve been out of the country too long, my child. We like to get together for some down time now and then. Good for the soul. And just FYI, this is a big to-do coming up next week at Eagle Rock. You know, to remember the fallen on Veteran’s Day and to celebrate Thanksgiving. You should come. It’s a mandatory callout.”

“I’m kinda busy here, Kissie. We’ll have to see about that.”

“Okay then, but you might want to read the memo. I’ll get right on this. You take care of my girl Laura, you hear.”

“I hear.”

He signed off then turned to Laura. “Kissie seems to think you’re a nice girl.”

“I am a nice girl,” she replied without skipping a beat. “And I’m still wondering how I managed to kill a man.”

He hated the tiny bit of little girl in her voice. She was way too nice to be sitting here in this old trailer, in the middle of the desert, with him of all people. She was the good girl who went to church and baked cookies for nursing home residents and planted petunias by the back door. The good girl who actually tried to help warped, scarred, tired souls.

He was the bad boy who shunned crowds, liked his solitude and really never let anyone get too close. He was the loner, the soldier, the warrior who’d fought the good fight and yet, had somehow managed to lose both his soul and his sanity in doing so. “How did you wind up here?” he asked her.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she reminded him.

He lifted her up, grabbed the gun she’d laid on the step and pulled her toward the truck. “Well, honey, that’s gonna have to wait. ’Cause whoever this is, they seem to be determined to either scare you or kill you. I just don’t get why they keep leaving your cards everywhere like a trail. They obviously want us to find these cards.”

She grabbed the tattered card out of his hand then gasped. “I didn’t notice this before but this isn’t my up dated business card, Luke. This looks like my old set of cards. I had them changed about two weeks ago. I added my website on the new ones.”

“Then where did these come from?”

“I threw them in the recycling bin at my apartment building.”

He steadied her hand to stare at the card. “So someone went through that bin and found them. How many did you have left?”

“About twenty-five or so. A little box—almost empty.”

“Just enough to spread the word.”

“And what is the word?”

“That’s the big question,” he replied. “That’s what we need to find out.”

“Do we have to report this to the police?”

“Not yet,” he said as he guided her to the truck. “We gave our report this morning about the break-in and the shooting. We might have to go in for more questioning once they identify the man who—”

“The man I killed,” she replied, her eyes going all misty. She turned away to stare out into the desert.

Paco didn’t press her. Sooner or later, she was going to fall apart and they both knew it. He dreaded it. He’d never been good around hysterical women. But this one was deserving of a little meltdown. He’d see her through it, because he wasn’t allowed to have any more meltdowns. He had a mission. And he was alone in this until he could figure out what was going on. He couldn’t abandon this innocent woman even if he did resent her being here.

“Let’s go,” he said, tugging her toward the truck.

She wiped her eyes and got in, the big truck making her look even more lost and tiny. Which only made Paco want to protect her even more.

He slipped behind the wheel, shaking his head as he brought the truck to life with a roar. This day had gone from bad to worse. And he had a feeling it wasn’t going to get any better anytime soon. His grandfather was in the hospital, probably still in a coma. His brother would want answers. Paco wanted those same answers.

After calling his brother one more time to check on his grandfather, Paco glanced over at the woman huddled in the seat across from him and wondered if he could keep her safe and alive until he figured things out. He had to. He wouldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t be the last man standing again.

Not this time. Not with Laura Walton. She deserved better than that. Much better.

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