LIAM ROGERS SHIFTED IN THE worn office chair, ignoring the way his leg protested the cramped quarters. He’d been sitting in the conference room for hours, popping ibuprofen like M&M’s to keep the muscles in his back from seizing. The old injuries didn’t bother him as much if he kept moving, but he’d never survive spending his days behind a desk. It was one more thing that made his job at Southerland Security a perfect fit—that and he got to use the skill set he’d developed in the Marines to protect people in his country this time.

He spent his days doing everything from playing temporary roadie and bodyguard to walking up to the mostly legal side of law enforcement. Either way, it was never boring and the occasional influx of adrenaline made him feel alive and made the transition to civilian life a little easier. He’d seen things he wished he hadn’t, but at least when it happened now, it didn’t come with the same soul-crushing hopelessness he’d felt serving in countries with no functioning government, let alone a police department that actually worked to protect the people.

That’s what he was doing today—helping law enforcement protect people, women and children mostly. He just hoped they’d get to the end of his part before the painkillers quit. He was one small part of the DA’s case. They’d been grilling him all morning; they had to run out of questions soon.

“One more time for the record,” said the assistant DA assigned to take his deposition. “What led you to the shipyard in Norfolk?”

They weren’t going to run out if they started repeating questions. Liam bit back his groan and did what he always did—concentrated on the job in front of him.

“Emerson Southerland traced the money through a handful of shell companies. He suspected the man who’d cheated our client was funneling the money into illegal arms, but at that point we had nothing concrete to take to law enforcement.”

He’d been careful to add the last bit. The Southerlands respected the police. Their cousin was a cop, but by its nature, security work skirted legal channels and the relationship between the two was notoriously suspect. No reason to add to the distrust, especially in situations like this where they needed each other. There wasn’t a thing Southerland Security could legally do to prosecute the bastards he’d caught, but the police wouldn’t have gotten a warrant to catch them without Emerson and Liam’s work. It was a symbiotic relationship no one was completely comfortable with.

“And what did you find when you reached the dock?”

Liam sucked in a breath, making his nostrils flare as the memory of that night rolled over him. He could almost smell the stink of seaweed mixed with diesel. They’d gone to the shipyard expecting to find a container with crates of AKs. What they’d found instead was a nightmare.

“Andrews and I searched the shipyard until we found the container with the numbers matching Henderson’s manifest.” Not wanting to call attention to themselves until they knew for sure what they were dealing with, they’d snuck past the guard house and avoided the single patrol—not exactly difficult, considering the big metal shipping containers were stacked four high in some places. But even in the dark, he didn’t have trouble picking out the country of origin label. “We intended to confirm the container’s location for our client and then leave.” He paused, pushing back against the memory.

“Why didn’t you?” prodded the attorney.

“I heard a noise.” It was a lie. Under oath. And he was just fine with that.

There was no way in hell he’d do or say anything to complicate the DA’s case. There had been no noise. That far back in the shipyard, it had been almost unnaturally quiet. He’d opened the container to see if it held the guns they expected. Without the arms, they didn’t have anything to take to the police and at best their client would be out close to a quarter of a million dollars. At worst, the man would be implicated in the fraud and end up on the hook with people a lot more ruthless than the cops. Liam opened the container because it was part of his job, but he couldn’t see a good reason to cop to the B&E and five to ten years’ worth of reasons not to.

“What happened next?” The lawyer leaned forward in his chair. He’d heard Liam’s testimony already but this was the moment the case hinged on. Liam couldn’t blame him for being eager despite the fact reliving it was the last thing in the world he wanted.

“I heard a noise coming from inside the container so I opened the door. It was full of people.” He said the words faster, clinging to the irrational hope that when he got done telling the story, he’d be done seeing the faces peering out at him from the dark. He’d said the word people, but they weren’t just people. They were girls, most of them barely old enough to drive, and their huge, frightened eyes got added to the list of things destined to haunt him until the day he died.

“Are we finished here?” He needed to stretch his legs. He needed to get the hell out of the worn-out conference room in the government building that set him on edge just from the smell of 80s polyester and bureaucracy. “We’re starting to cover the same ground again.”

The guy asking the questions glanced over at his colleague, who, if his tailor-made suit was any indication, was a few steps above the younger man’s pay grade. He nodded and the first man turned his toothpaste-white smile back to Liam.

“I believe that’s all we need for now. Thank you for your time.”

He was out of the chair and out of the room before anyone changed their minds and roped him into another hour-long grilling. Emerson Southerland, his boss and the guy who somehow managed to hold everything together when it went to shit, caught him at the bank of elevators.

“I think it would be a good idea if you laid low for a while. Just for a couple of weeks until they’re ready to go to trial.” The words sounded like a suggestion but the tone of Emerson’s voice made it clear he intended for Liam to follow his orders.

“I’m not worried about Giacometti.” The mob boss had a reputation that made the Godfather look like a Sunday morning cartoon and would make lesser men shake in their boots. Liam wasn’t a lesser man.

“I didn’t ask if you were worried.”

“I still have to wrap up the Johnson case.” It was a bullshit excuse. The only thing left to do on the security job was paperwork and everyone, including Emerson, knew how much he hated paperwork. He farmed it out on younger team members as often as he could get away with it.

Emerson didn’t bother to acknowledge his protest. He simply kept on as if Liam hadn’t said a word.

“Take the time off. You’ve been working for us for three years. You’ve got months of vacation time banked. Find someplace warm and drop out of sight for a while.”

“You’ve got a lot of room to talk.” Emerson just got back from watching a rockstar and his girlfriend at a resort in Bali. Liam would bet money—a lot of it—he hadn’t so much as taken a morning off to enjoy the tropical paradise while he was there. “I don’t see you going into hiding.” It sounded like he was whining and Emerson cut his gaze at him in a way that made it clear he thought so too.

“I’m not the one who was on the eleven o’clock news for saving a bunch of teenage girls from God knows what kind of hell.”

It was sex trafficking. There wasn’t any reason to pretend otherwise, but he didn’t blame his boss for not wanting to spell it out. Sometimes reality got a little too real, and the people they managed to save just called attention to the ones they couldn’t.

“That wasn’t my fault.” He’d made a point to try to stay away from the cameras, but the cops insisted on keeping him on site until they were done asking their questions and the news anchor made a point of getting the “hero of the night” in the shot.

“Doesn’t matter.” Emerson punched the button for the elevator, signaling the end to their discussion—if he could call it that.

Command was more like it. Liam thought he was finished with commands when he left the service. Rocking forward to flex his foot in his boot, he exhaled as his tight muscles protested the stretch. Where the fuck was he supposed to go? He had absolutely no interest in sitting on a beach somewhere. The very last thing in the world he wanted to do was spend time alone with his thoughts.

He liked fishing, or at least he had a hundred years or so ago. Back when he had time. He’d gotten kind of a cryptic call from one of the guys he’d served with on his last tour. Liam knew exactly how hard re-entry could be and it sounded like his friend was struggling. Maybe he could grab a couple of fishing rods, swing by for a visit, and kill two birds with one stone.

––––––––

ANDY STUART SAT back on her heels, ignoring the way the damp worked its way through her faded jeans. It had been spring the day before, but kneeling in the chilly mid-morning air made her glad for her fleece hoodie. She glanced down the row of freshly planted seedlings and let out a contented sigh. There was nothing better than seeing the tangible evidence of her work. It had taken her most of the morning, but she could already picture the heads of red lettuce with their distinct oakleaf shape filling the row in a few weeks.

She slipped the last seedling with its two determined leaves from the tray and poked a hole for it into the soft dirt with her fingers. The earth was warmer than the outside air and the contrast made her smile. There were only a handful of days each season where that held true, and she loved them for both the rarity and the implied promise of warmer days ahead. She tucked the seedling in, making a Pete Seeger “Garden Song” kind of promise to take care of it before brushing her hands off on her jeans and standing.

It would be a couple of hours before the guys came in from the back fields for lunch but she wanted to put a pot of chili on so it would be ready for them. Of course, in all likelihood, Millie had taken care of it already. The older woman had a knack for seeing what needed to be done and doing it before being asked. Andy was grateful every day for her.

It wasn’t hers or anyone else’s job to wait on the veterans who made their home on the farm. Independence was a huge part of what Sourwood Farm offered them, but she worked hard to strike a balance between letting the recovering soldiers take care of themselves and making sure they knew someone cared about them. Food was one of the easiest and least complicated ways to accomplish that.

Nobody ended up on her doorstep who wasn’t broken mentally, physically, or both. Adjusting to civilian life was hard under the best of circumstances. The people who lived on the farm weren’t dealing with the best of circumstances. Not even close. But working the land, doing something tangible, something physical where they didn’t have to explain themselves to anyone, seemed to make things easier. Plants didn’t ask questions or demand reassurances, and the earth was a warm, familiar companion to people who had a hard time relating to any other kind.

Even that wasn’t a guarantee. By some measures, the suicide rate for veterans returning home was twice that of civilians. A few older studies had the number as high as twenty-two soldiers a day. She used to get off on arguing about data and statistics, but in this case she didn’t care about the numbers. One was too high.

She hadn’t lost anyone who’d come to the farm. Not yet anyway, but it felt like a tenuous dance. For some more than others, she thought, her mind wandering to the back pasture where Jake, the newest arrival, was turning under the winter rye. The young marine had come to Sourwood by way of Landstuhl, the medical center in Germany. His body was mending—although it would likely never be the same again. The sniper round that landed him in the hospital pretty much wrecked that chance, but at least he still had use of all his limbs, which was more than some of the inhabitants of the farm.

It was his mind that worried her. Since his arrival, the twenty-five-year-old hadn’t said more than a handful of words at a time to anyone. There was no way in hell he’d open up about what he’d been through. Most of the time, it didn’t seem like there was anyone looking out through his eyes. The only thing that seemed to bring him any kind of feeling—happiness was much too strong a word—was driving the tractor. She knew from his file he’d grown up on a corn farm in Iowa, and he clearly knew his way around farm machinery. Thank God. She could drive the ancient John Deere and had for hours on end when she first bought the farm, but she hated it.

She was more than content to turn all the tractor duties over to Jake. And since he wouldn’t talk to anyone on the farm, she’d encouraged him every chance she got to reach out to one of his buddies. Preferably someone who’d already made the transition to civilian life and could help him find his way. Although who knew if he actually did it. Hopefully he’d find his way through the maze and back to something worth living for. The best she could offer him was a safe place with a simple purpose while he wrestled his demons and hope it was enough. She tucked her planting trays in the shed and zipped her sweatshirt up against the wind picking up and started toward the house.

Every time she looked at the big old farmhouse, her heart squeezed tight in her chest. She loved its beautiful utilitarian lines and huge wrap-around porch. It was as if she’d been given the best present in the world and one she didn’t deserve. She worked every day to try to make herself worthy of the house and the land surrounding it.

Ignoring the empty flowerpots on the landing—she’d fill them with pansies in a day or two, as soon as she was sure the weather would hold—she climbed the steps and pulled open the screen door with its scrollwork and spool detail. The aroma of sautéed peppers and sweet corn bread hit her with its spicy warmth. She followed her nose to the kitchen and the tiny stooped woman responsible for the delicious smells.

With her silver-white hair and flowered apron, Millie might be short on stature but the woman had real presence. She filled whatever room she was in and none more so than the kitchen that had been hers for all her adult life. In the beginning, Andy felt odd invading Millie’s domain, but despite having plenty of reasons to do otherwise, the older woman made her feel at home.

“What’s doing, Wonder Woman?” Andy asked, pressing a kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek. “I came in to put the chili on and you beat me to it.”

“You’ve got enough to do. I can handle heating up a pot of chili.” She scowled, the crease in her forehead almost camouflaged by the wrinkles in her thin weathered skin, faded to olive from her years working outside in the sun. “There’s zucchini bread left over from breakfast and I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t you get some for both of us?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Andy filled two heavy white mugs with coffee from the ancient electric percolator and topped Millie’s off with milk the way she liked. There was enough bread left for two thin slices, surprising considering how much the residents loved Millie’s zucchini bread.

They’d grated the zucchini last summer when the vegetables threatened to overrun the garden and stuck the Ziploc bags in the freezer to keep the older woman supplied all winter long. In return, she kept them supplied in sweet, spicy bread, so moist it barely held its shape.

Andy took the mugs and plates to the painted wooden farm table scarred from decades of use. Not bothering to wait for it to cool, she took a sip of the scorching-hot coffee, sucking in air to keep it from scalding her tongue.

“If you put milk in it like a sensible person, or waited a minute you wouldn’t have to do that,” said the older woman, lowering herself into one of the Windsor chairs and reaching for her own mug.

The statement didn’t require a response. She respected Millie too much to tell her milk in perfectly good coffee was an abomination. Instead, she moved on to the zucchini bread, popping a bite of spicy goodness into her mouth.

“You missed breakfast. What hauled you out of bed so early?”

It was a rare morning she was up before the older woman, but Andy hadn’t been able to sleep and by the time the gray light of dawn started to color the edges of the sky, she’d given up trying.

“I wanted to get the lettuce in.”

The other woman gave her a look that made it clear she was onto her bullshit.

“I do think I heard once that lettuce planted by moonlight tastes better,” said Millie, rolling her eyes like a teenager instead of the seventy-something she was. “You know, someday you’re going to have to stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or you’re going to give yourself a hump.”

Andy sipped her less-than-scorching coffee and polished off her bread in silence. The last thing in the world she wanted to talk about were the nightmares that occasionally—more rarely since she opened the farm—interrupted her sleep. If that made her a bit of a hypocrite, she’d make her peace with it. Licking the tip of her finger, she used it to pick up the crumbs still left on her plate and wished for more bread.

“Hello there,” said the older woman.

She looked up, feeling like a kid caught sneaking candy, but Millie wasn’t paying any attention to Andy. Her gaze was fixed on something outside the window. Andy followed her direction, glancing out the window in time to see a wall of a man headed toward the back door. He paused when he reached her beat-up Subaru wagon, his gaze drifting toward the bumper for a second. When he looked up again, his lips curved in a cocky, know-it-all smirk and any warm feelings she might have been having evaporated. At least she wished they had. It might take a few minutes for reality to match the indignation in her head.

“You could crack a walnut on those biceps.”

“Millie!” Andy glanced from the window to the woman sitting next to her, but the older woman blinked her eyes in mock innocence.

“What? You know you could. Bet he could carry the weight of the world on those shoulders without getting a hump.” She cut her gaze in Andy’s direction as she took a sip of her coffee. “I’m just saying is all.”

Andy didn’t want to think of what the man striding toward them could carry. Or what he could crack with his arms. At least not until he was headed away from her porch instead of toward it. His long legs ate up the ground and in a fraction of a second, he’d reached the house. Andy jumped up before he had a chance to knock, and almost bumped into Millie on her way to the door.

“I’ll get it. You sit down.”

“No way,” said the older woman, heading toward the pantry. “You invite him in. I’m going to get more zucchini bread.”

“We don’t even know who he is or what he wants,” said Andy, pushing back against the image of the giant of a man in her kitchen, taking up more than his fair share of space.

“I know what I want,” said Millie. “I want to keep him.”