Jake stared at the ranch, a gloved fist pressed to his mouth as he absorbed what lay before him.

Stacked stones supported dark wooden posts, and the one-story home was made of solid burnt orange wood, with expansive windows, and a porch wrapping around the structure. Behind the house, Jake remembered fishing in the trout filled pond. Of course, now, the land and pond were covered by a layer of ice and snow. But the serene rolling hills and mountain peaks had always served as the perfect backdrop for a kid in his cowboy boots. He remembered catching his first trout when he was seven. The thing had been so big that the fishing pole almost snapped as the line became weighted down by the sucker.

But damned if Jake didn’t reel it in—only to let it go. He hated killing anything.

Jake tugged off his right glove and brushed away a tear that was nearly hardening like glass to his skin.

A cold chill from the Montana winter air moved through him, and his chest hurt. But this time it wasn’t from the pain of the blast.

He’s gone. And I don’t remember him dying. Jake’s body trembled as he gripped the glove in his hand, holding it to his heart. It was as if he were experiencing the loss of his grandfather for the first time.

Jake forced himself to remain standing when all he wanted was to drop to the icy cold ground and cry. But that wasn’t what a man did—right? He thought of his hard, steely father.

No, Jake had to suck it up. Be the man his father was.

He dragged his gaze back to the ranch, his eyes falling upon a swirl of smoke that filtered out of the chimney and up into the sky. “Do you know when he died?” he choked out the words.

“I checked your records. Your grandfather passed away three years ago, and he left the ranch to your family. You mentioned to me in passing that you liked coming here when you needed to think. It’s secluded, so you should be safe out here. We’ll have agents posted outside at all times.”

“Yeah, this was a good idea. Although you could have mentioned where we were going—and that my grandfather wouldn’t be here.” Jake forced his feet to move toward the front porch. He was able to walk, thankfully, but his body still felt like one massive, achy bruise.

Trent had booked a military flight back to the States shortly after the MI6 agents had left the base, knowing that they would continue to hound Jake as long as he was on British soil.

“Sorry,” Trent said, looking over his shoulder at the other federal agent accompanying them.

“Is my family inside?” Jake stopped in front of the steps. Smoke hovered above the house like small gray clouds.

“Yeah. We booked their tickets using aliases. No one should know they’re here.”

“What do they know?”

“The basics. You were taken from a case and your abductors think you died. But anything beyond that is classified, so don’t share—”

“Not like I know much, anyway.” Jake shook his head as he began to tug off his other black glove.

“And the second you remember . . .”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Jake finished as he climbed the steps. He glanced over his shoulder at the rocking chairs to his right. They’d been hand carved by his grandfather. His eyes became glossy again as a swell of pain in his stomach grew. He remembered sitting on those chairs on his grandfather’s lap, studying the constellations in the sky.

“You okay?” Trent placed a hand on his shoulder, and the gesture felt so odd since he didn’t know the man—even though Trent apparently knew him pretty damn well.

“Yeah. I’m great . . .” Jake reached for the knob, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it.

Of course, he didn’t get the chance.

The door swung open, and his mom rushed toward him, flinging her arms around his neck.

* * *

Jake sat at the formal dining room table with his family, his stomach in knots. The partially eaten pork chops on his plate blurred as he stared down at them. His appetite was returning, although slowly, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t think skinny would look good on him.

He sat forward, hating when his back came in contact with anything. The red strips of flesh were starting to scar, to become pinkish white. The crisscross lashes had torn deep, however, and he’d wear the marks of defeat for the rest of his life.

It had only been a few days since Jake had arrived at the ranch, but being around his family was a hell of a lot better than being in a hospital bed overseas. A few flashes of memories had even come to him in the last few days, like catching a trout with his father on the ranch just three weeks before his grandfather had died. Too bad that most of what he had remembered was useless to the FBI.

“Jake, dear, are you okay?”

Jake looked up at his mother, her deep brown eyes finding his. He studied his mom, hating that she aged over a decade since he remembered her last. Her hair was graying where it had once been blonde. But at least he remembered her. And his father and sister. He couldn’t imagine not knowing his own flesh and blood.

“I will be, Mom.” He hoped, at least.

Jake scooted away from the table and tossed his red linen napkin on the plate, covering the rest of the food he couldn’t quite finish. His mom had given him far too much, expecting him to be the quarterback he once was, not the injured man sitting before her now. “You know, you don’t have to stay here for long. You have lives to get back to.”

“Are you kidding?” His mom’s brows pinched together.

“Well, Emily shouldn’t be here,” he said while nodding his head his sister’s direction. “D.C. is probably crumbling without you there.” He couldn’t believe his little sister had become a big shot lawyer at the Attorney General’s office. Well, technically he could believe it because she’d always been smart, but he still thought of her as an awkward teen with braces.

Emily pressed her napkin to her pink lips and blotted. “You’re my big brother, and you’re far more important than a few cases.”

Jake’s father touched his dark beard and toyed with the strands for a moment as his silvery gray eyes fixated on Jake. He didn’t say anything, which was typical of his father. That, at least, hadn’t changed in the last twelve years.

“Can’t you tell us anything about what happened to you? I mean, what if whoever had you comes after you again? What if someone finds out you’re here?” His mom stood and began collecting dishes.

“Whatever Trent already told you is about as much as I know.” Pretty close, at least. “And no one should be coming after me. I’m dead—remember?”

“I don’t like this,” his mom said, shaking her head. “And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

What if someone did come after him? He didn’t want his family getting caught in the crossfire, that was for sure.

Jake walked into the living area adjacent to the dining room and stared at the unlit, floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, the half-eaten burnt log drawing his eye.

That’s how he felt.

Like part of him was gone. Burned. And all that was left were ashes.

But then there was another part of him, some strange part on the inside that wanted to scream. To tear down the damn walls of shame that he was building and fight back. To find whoever the hell did this to him. He had to assume those feelings came from the man he had become.

A cold chill wrapped his spine, and he flinched a little when his sister’s hand came down on his shoulder a few minutes later.

“Jake, I made you something.”

He faced Emily and forced a smile to his face. He’d always been there for her in the past, and he hated the idea that now she, along with everyone else, had to take care of him like a wounded animal.

“What is it? A homemade get well card?” he half-joked.

She handed him a folded piece of paper, fighting a smile. “It’s a list of your friends, smartass. People you can rely on.”

Jake gripped the bridge of his nose as he studied the list, squinting a little.

Emily rested a hand on his forearm for a moment. “Hang on.” She moved over to his mother’s purse and dug around inside. “Here we go. Mom brought the spare pair you keep at her house.”

Emily handed him a small black case.

“I wear glasses?” he blurted, popping it open. They were framed in thick, black plastic.

“Only for reading.” She smiled.

“Great . . . I really am old.”

“That’s for sure,” she teased.

He slowly placed them on and looked at the list again—it was a hell of a lot more in focus.

The first name his sister scribbled with her chicken scratch (she should have been a doctor, with that handwriting) was Michael Maddox. He’d been the resourceful one, the one who’d managed to find him in London. He read the next two aloud: “Connor Matthews. Mason Matthews—”

“Brothers. Both former Marines, too,” Emily interrupted.

Jake still couldn’t believe he’d been a Marine. Going into the military had been about the last thing he had ever considered doing when he was younger. “What do they do now?”

She sighed. “Well, the Matthews brothers inherited their father’s business recently, but last I heard they were thinking of starting their own PI firm—or private rescue group. I don’t know. They help people—that’s what I know.”

“Oh.” He looked at the next name. “Aiden O’Connor.”

Emily smiled. “Irish guy. Great accent.”

Jake raised a brow, ready to go big brother on her if his sister had a crush on his friend. Even if it was a friend he couldn’t even remember.

“Hey!” Emily shoved her brother in the side. When he grimaced, she covered her hands over her mouth. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“I was just getting back at you,” he lied. “I’m okay.”

“Thank God.” She pursed her lips together. “And to clarify, Aiden is taken. Engaged to a hot biochemist.” Another smile teased her lips, and Jake had to wonder if his sister was hiding something. “Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah? Who?” He probably would hate the guy.

“He’s English, actually. Lives in London. I met him at an event two years ago, and we hit it off. The long-distance stuff is hard, but we manage. You came to London last year to meet him . . . well, more like drill him.”

Jake touched his chest. “You’re telling me that you’re dating a guy in the city where I just survived an explosion?” What the hell were the chances?

Emily shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Well, did I like him at least?” he grumbled.

“Ha. You barely even saw him. You became enchanted by some sexy Brit you met at the New Year’s Eve party.”

“Now that I wish I remembered.” He smiled, almost forgetting everything for a moment.

Emily returned his smile and nudged him in the side. “Anyways, there’s one more name on the list. You have a lot more friends than these, but I narrowed the list down to the guys you tend to call—or they call you—when things get hairy.”

“Hairy?” This elicited a chuckle from him.

“I don’t know. You boys tend to find yourselves in trouble. A lot.”

Great.

“His name is Ben Logan.” Emily flicked at the paper with her index finger. “He has a private security firm out in Vegas. Although he was a pro-baseball player for two years before that.”

“Let me guess, before that he was also a Marine. Do I have something against the other branches of military?” The thought made him smile. “What does Dad think about his son becoming a Marine? Did I do it just to piss him off?” His dad had attempted to raise him to become a soldier, which was exactly why Jake had never wanted to be one—he wanted to be as different as he could be from his father.

“Probably. You know how badly he wanted you to be Army like him. And you just couldn’t help yourself . . . he got over it, though.” She shrugged. “Since you, for the most part, followed in his footsteps.”

Jake thought about asking her why he joined, but he held off. “Thanks for the list, Emily. I probably won’t see any of them until my memory comes back, though. If it comes back.” He stuffed the paper in his jeans pocket and walked over to the leather couch in front of the fireplace.

“It will come back. And when it does, whoever did this to you will regret it.” Emily crossed her arms and smirked.

“You believe in me that much, huh?”

She squinted a little while waving her hand between them. “Well, between you and your friends, someone will go for the jugular.”

“And you’re okay with that?” he accused.

“After what I’ve seen you go through—and, hell, what I’ve witnessed in Washington—very little bothers me anymore.” Her espresso brown eyes met his, and he cringed at the thought of his sweet little sister dealing with Washington cronies and criminals.

“Well, I don’t know if I want to be that guy anymore.”

Emily shook her head. “Jake, I don’t think it’s possible for you to escape your past so easily. And as much as I’d wish my big brother would quit being in the line of fire, that’s just not who you are.” She touched her collarbone and exhaled. “You are strong. Dependable. And although I don’t want you getting a big head, you’re kind of amazing.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Jake?” His father’s voice stole his attention from his sister.

He was standing in the doorway with a laptop tucked under his arm. His dad hadn’t said all that much since he’d been there, and Jake wondered if they’d grown even more distant in the past twelve years.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Emily looked at her brother out of the corner of her eye, and then brushed past her father and left the room.

“What’s up?” Jake’s shoulders rolled back a little as if he felt the need to be taller in his father’s presence.

“Hm. Well, I have something that I thought might help you remember things.”

His words caused a slight twitchy reaction in his stomach. Some part of him didn’t want any more memories. Maybe it was the part of him that got sick every time he remembered some part of his past. The nausea was like a greeting card from hell.

“Okay,” he dragged out the word like it was stuck in molasses. “On the computer?”

His dad nodded and motioned for him to have a seat on the couch.

Jake sat down, pulling an extra pillow behind his back for support. Still, the pain crept through his skin—like he was still stripped naked, his back bleeding.

His dad opened the laptop and went into his email account. “Here.” He slid the laptop over to Jake. “There are at least a hundred emails from you on there. Most of them are to your mother, but a few are to me.” His dad stood. “And most of these emails are during your time in the service.” He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe they’ll help trigger something for you.”

Jake stared at the computer screen in a daze and when he looked back up, his dad was gone.

He sat alone in the room; the only sound was the slight clank of dishes as his mother cleaned up the kitchen, that and the low hum of her voice as she spoke to his sister.

He stared at the list of subject lines, not sure if he wanted to read his own words. He clicked on one at random and stared at the few lines that came onto the screen. The message was dated November 2005.

Mom, the training is harder than I expected. But don’t worry about me. I’m doing good. Better to be over prepared, right? Well, give Emily my love. Tell Dad hi. Miss you. –Jake

Did I become a man of few words? When did I turn into my father?

Jake closed the message and scrolled through the list. He opened one from two years later.

Mom, you need to stop worrying about me. Afghanistan’s not that bad. Promise. And I’m working with a good group of people. They have my back. I won’t be in touch for a while because I’m going out on an OP. Love you, Mom. –Jake

Jake read a few more emails, but he couldn’t bring himself to read his mother’s responses. He remembered how stressed she had been when he was a kid, and his father was deployed in the Army. He could only imagine what his own time in the Marines had done to her. And he wasn’t ready to relive whatever agony he had put her through.

He shut the laptop and shifted it off to the side on the couch, unwilling to torture himself anymore. He’d had enough torture to last a damn lifetime. He bent his head forward, pressing his face into his palms. The sound of shoes walking on the old, beaten up floors had him straightening.

Jake couldn’t take his eyes off his father as he slowly moved the computer out of his way to sit next to him. “Jake.” There was a crack in his voice—a sound Jake had never heard from his composed, controlled father.

“Yeah, Dad?” Jake touched his quads, grounding himself.

A hand on his shoulder had Jake flinching. Then he sagged as his dad tugged Jake against his shoulder, unable to believe the gesture, desperate not to do anything that might make it end. His father pressed his face against the side of Jake’s temple. “We could have lost you.”

Jake couldn’t remember his father ever crying, at least not when he was younger. Hearing him do it now . . .

So, Jake did the only thing he knew that made sense. He let go with a sob, suddenly feeling like a child again in the safety of his father’s arms.

* * *

Warm beads of perspiration trailed from his scalp down his face. His spine dripped with sweat as he kicked at the covers and turned over in bed.

Jake fisted the sheets as images poked into his mind—a nightmare or memories, he wasn’t sure which.

In his mind, he was back in the desert.

Helmet. Black boots—heavy and practically glued to his feet.

The air was layered in yellow and gold, fumes baking the land. So thick. So hot. It was hard to breathe.

The city before him was quiet. Eerily quiet.

The buildings were in ruins. Freshly burned.

Then he heard it—gunfire spraying in the distance.

The screams.

Jake rolled out of bed and thudded loud against the floor. He winced as he pressed his palms to the hardwood and stood up.

“What the hell?” He wiped the sweat from his face and pulled back the curtains that covered the window near his bed. The sun had yet to rise.

As he dressed, Jake pushed back the choking sensation in his throat.

The heavy jacket and cowboy boots he’d found in the closet looked as though they’d seen better days.

The ranch felt empty now that his family had left. Trent had decided it wasn’t a good idea for them to stay for long, that it wouldn’t be safe for them. Jake was happy to go along with any plan that meant keeping his family out of danger.

But the three days he’d spent with them had been good. Snippets of his past had slowly edged back into his mind, and some of them had been almost . . . nice.

Jake stepped out onto the porch, automatically searching for the federal agents who were supposed to be on guard outside.

What he didn’t expect was to see a woman standing behind the agents’ car.

Not just any woman.

He took a step closer and squinted as the first bright rays of sunlight pierced the horizon.

He could only see her profile, and her hair wasn’t red, but a deep brown. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, he decided. There was no reason why the nurse from London would have followed him there.

But when the woman looked his way, there was no mistaking her eyes. They could shred a man like a bullet, even in the hazy morning light.

She slowly walked the stone path, which had been shoveled by the agents yesterday. He stared in shock as she stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“Hi, Agent Summers,” she said in a soft voice, looking up at him.