Jonathan Reigler folded his tall form into the driver's seat of the sedan and slammed the door closed. His hands curled around the steering wheel, his trembling grip tightening with each breath.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He needed his fucking head examined.

For going to the game.

For following her here.

For running out before she saw him.

Fuck.

It had been close. Too damn close. All he wanted was a closer look. To see how Sammie had changed. To see if she looked as sweet as he remembered.

She had changed, but not in the ways he had imagined. Her hair was still thick and luscious, but shorter. Curlier. It made her look younger, sweeter.

Vulnerable.

Did those big brown eyes still twinkle with laughter? Yes, from what he'd been able to see, as she sat there with her teammates. But there was something else there, something that hadn't been there the last time he saw her. A wariness, maybe. A subtle caution that had never existed there before.

It had taken every last reserve of his strength not to go over and pull her soft body against his. To hold her. Breathe in her scent. To claim the lush fullness of her lips with his own. To claim her.

To brush his knuckles over the bruise that marred her chin. He hated seeing it, hated knowing how it must have felt. His gut had twisted when he saw it and for a brief second, he had come so close to storming over and demanding who had hurt her. The rage, the protectiveness, had consumed him in its fiery grip—for all of two seconds before he forced himself to calm down. He knew exactly what had caused the bruise, he'd been there and seen it for himself.

Nobody had hurt her.

Nobody but him.

Jonathan didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay there, just watching her from his seat across the crowded room, but he couldn't. Her teammate had seen him, had noticed him enough to actually point him out—which was a real kick-in-the-ass considering he was damn good at blending in and hiding in plain sight.

Usually.

But he couldn't let Sammie see him. Not yet. She wasn't ready. Hell, he wasn't sure if he was ready.

Fuck.

He dragged one hand through his hair then stabbed the keys in the ignition and started the car. The engine turned over with a gentle hum, a reminder that the car was brand new, its interior filled with that unique smell that only came with new vehicles. He glanced in the rearview mirror and bit back another curse when his gaze landed on the child seat securely strapped in the middle. Another new purchase, this one taunting him with its emptiness.

Fuck. What the fuck was he doing? Did he really think any of this would help? A new car to replace the pick-up he'd had for years. A car seat for the daughter he hadn't seen in more than two years.

Two years, eight months, and fourteen days.

He hadn't seen his wife in that same amount of time.

No, he corrected himself. Not his wife—his ex-wife. Sammie had been his ex-wife for two years, three months, and nine days. Ever since he signed those stupid fucking papers in the middle of that stupid fucking desert.

Because he needed his fucking head examined.

Jonathan put the car in gear and headed out of the parking lot, his eagle-eyed attention on the traffic while his mind sorted through the memories.

The mistakes.

And fuck, there were a lot of them. Too many to list. Too many sins committed, too many regrets.

Too many moments wasted.

Because he'd been a fucking coward. Then—and now.

He merged into traffic heading north on York Road, driving aimlessly, barely noticing when the landscape changed from suburbia to rolling countryside. His old stomping grounds, where he'd grown up more country than city, thanks to the rural landscape of the small farms and horse country of the close-knit community that comprised the northern part of the county. He kept driving, minutes and miles into the falling night. Further north, past the high school where his name was engraved on a plaque with the other students who had enlisted after graduation.

How many years ago? How many names? How many fucking wars and conflicts? Too many.

He hit the brakes and made a sudden left, guiding the car down a narrow country road until he reached a small parking lot at the end. How many times had he been here?

Swimming. Fishing. Drinking.

Alone. With his buddies. With Sammie.

Dozens. Hundreds.

A lifetime ago.

He climbed out of the car and made his way along the dirt path, the soles of his boots digging into the loose rock and packed earth. Each step was steady and sure—and soundless. The riverbank appeared before him, a gentle sloping of the grassy earth as it met the water. The river was shallow here, nothing more than a lazy, meandering stream cutting its way over the rocky bottom. But there, just around the bend, it got deeper. A little faster. Nothing dangerous, nothing too treacherous—just enough for a fun ride on inner tubes under the blazing summer sun.

Not that it was sunny right now. Or hot. The early November air was cold, filled with a bite that would cut even deeper in a few weeks. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and ignored the cold.

But the memories…it wasn't quite so easy to ignore them.

For the hundredth time, he asked himself what the fuck he was doing. Why was here? He'd been back in Maryland for two months now, settling into his new job. He told himself that living here, so close to Sammie, wouldn't be a problem. He hadn't seen her since that morning more than two years ago. And it wasn't like she would want to see him. She wouldn't want to have anything to do with him. He had made sure of that—two years, three months, and nine days ago.

Who the fuck was he kidding? He could be a thousand miles away and it wouldn't help.

Hell, nothing could help anymore. He'd been a fucking ass two years ago. A real cowardly prick who had been so fucking convinced he was doing the right thing. But he hadn't been thinking right. He'd thought he was doing the right thing by letting his wife and daughter go. Thought he was being so fucking selfless.

What a fucking crock of shit. The only thing he'd been was a fucking coward. Scared shitless. And too fucking stupid to realize it at the time, no matter how much his buddies had tried telling him otherwise.

Two years, three months, and nine days.

Why the hell hadn't Sammie moved on in that time? She should be remarried by now, settled down with an adoring husband who doted on her and a little brother or sister for Clare.

His gut twisted, filling with bile at the thought of another man touching Sammie. At the thought of his daughter calling another man Daddy. Fuck. He'd kill any man who tried. It wouldn't be hard. He'd killed before. Dozens of times.

Except this was different.

Sammie was no longer his wife. And Clare, his beautiful baby girl…fuck, he was nothing more than a stranger to her. She wouldn't even remember him, she had only been an infant when he left. A sweet, precious infant. An innocent baby. What had Sammie told her about him? Did she tell Clare how he had abandoned them, cut all ties with no notice and no explanation? Or did she say nothing at all? Did Clare even ask? Did she care?

He curled his hands into fists and sucked in a deep breath. It shouldn't bother him—he had no say in anything Sammie did or said. He wasn't part of their lives anymore—his choice.

His stupid, fucking choice.

But he still didn't understand why Sammie hadn't moved on. He was grateful—more grateful than words could explain. But he still didn't understand.

She had moved back here, to live with her parents. She was teaching kindergarten, just like she'd always wanted to.

And she was playing ice hockey.

Not in a beer league, like all those years a lifetime ago. But real hockey. A women's professional hockey team. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

A ghost of a smile curled one corner of his mouth. His little Sammie, playing hockey. He hadn't seen that one coming, had thought he was reading a report on some other Samantha Reigler. But no, it was his Sammie.

Good for her.

It still didn't explain why the fuck she hadn't remarried and moved on.

The phone in his back pocket vibrated. Once. Twice. Jonathan thought about ignoring it, even as he dug the phone out of the pocket and held it to his ear.

"Yeah."

"You're not thinking of jumping in, are you?"

Jonathan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look closer, asshole. It's only a foot deep here. And is there a reason you're tracking me?"

"No. Just wondering what the hell happened back at the bar."

Jonathan turned on his heel and headed back to the car. "Nothing happened."

"Yeah. No shit. You cost me twenty bucks."

"What are you talking about?"

"Daryl bet me twenty dollars that you'd wimp out. I told him he was full of it. That there was no fucking way our boy would wimp out. That our boy was on a fucking mission and never failed. That you were going to go in there and sweep the past-and-future Mrs. Reigler off her feet—"

"Or at least over your shoulder." A second voice cut into the conversation.

Jonathan uttered a low curse as he opened the car door. "Don't you two have better things to do? It's a Saturday night. Isn't there a bar or something that needs to be terrorized?"

He could imagine the two men—his friends, buddies, brothers—sitting across from one another, chiseled faces wreathed in amusement as they fist-bumped each other.

"Later, man. After you get your lame fucking ass back here and give us a full report. And the twenty bucks you cost me. You fucking coward."

"Yeah. Whatever. Don't hold your breath." Jonathan ignored the male laughter and disconnected the call. His gaze drifted out the windshield, focusing on the absolute darkness of the cold night.

Coward.

Mac had meant the word as a joke, nothing more than good-natured ribbing between men who had seen the worst the world had to offer—and done their best to make it right.

Coward.

It wasn't a word either of his buddies would think to use to describe him. It didn't fit with their image of him. Didn't fit with the experiences they had shared. Not even close.

Coward.

No, Mac hadn't meant it that way.

But he was closer to the truth than Jonathan would ever admit.