The full moon cast a long strip of illumination dancing on the surface of the bay as the slight waves crashed against the sand. Pounding footsteps were barely heard over the heavy breathing of the man as he ran along the familiar stretch of beach. Pumping his arms as he ran on the packed sand close to the surf, he kept his eyes on the nearby waves tossing seafoam and seaweed in his path. Sweat poured off his large, muscular body, soaking his t-shirt and shorts. Not caring to wipe his brow, he let the sweat drops fall into his eyes, blinking against the sting.

Brogan MacFarlane had jarred awake in the wee hours, like so many nights, his chest tight and breathing ragged. He remembered the first time this occurred as though it were only a few hours ago instead of a few years ago. Wondering if he was having a heart attack, he had lay in his military bunk on the other side of the world, hoping he would live long enough to see his family again.

It was not a heart attack, but it would only be after he left the Marines that he would hear the term panic attack. A fuckin’ panic attack. Like I could tell anyone that I was in a panic. Marines did not panic. So, he kept his nightmares to himself and learned to run as hard as he could to outpace the memories.

Growing up in Baytown, he had been glad to escape the tiny town…then glad to return. But nothing ever stays the same and returning to his hometown had exemplified that. He and his friends left after high school to join the various branches of the military, sure they had the answer to the world’s problems, only to return later as hardened men, sure that the fucked-up world was no place to live.

His feet continued their steady beat on the sand as the moon slipped lower into the horizon, allowing the slightest hues of pink and blue to appear. He glanced toward the water, a heron taking flight from its water buffet, a small fish in its mouth. Slowing as he approached the dunes near the town, he bent over at the waist, gasping for breath.

He ran his hand over his head, the newly short hair feeling unfamiliar…or maybe more familiar if he thought back to his jarhead days. He told everyone it was easier to take care of. Snorting, he shook his head, knowing ease had nothing to do with his decision, but rather hoping she noticed. Standing, he looked over the bay, wishing the surf would wash away the tangle of thoughts going through his head.

Nothing really worked, when he awoke in the middle of the night, the memories slamming into him like a gunshot straight through the heart. Running, he had found, would come the closest to keeping the horror at bay. Heaving, he slowly began again, turning around so that he was heading toward his home.

Passing by the dunes near town, he missed the sharp eyes of the woman who was sitting alone at the top, near the tall seagrass, taking in the scenery.

* * *

Brogan continued to jog until his small house came into view. Actually, it was more of a tiny beach bungalow. He bought the run-down property when he returned to Baytown, only able to afford it because of its dilapidated state. The old man who previously owned it had no children and when he needed to go into a nursing home, he sold it to Brogan, preferring it to go into the hands of someone who valued the beach for its beauty and not the value of the land.

Brogan and a few friends had rebuilt it, not making it fancy, but just livable enough for his needs. Good roof to keep the rain out, new windows, and new siding to withstand the wind from the bay. The yard was sand, the only grass being tall seagrass, and he kept the picket fence that circled the property. A lean-to shed was built onto the side of the bungalow, housing his canoe, kayaks, fishing poles, and a few tools.

The inside consisted of one large, all purpose room in the front, with a sofa, chair, and TV stand on one end. The kitchen counter divided the space with a couple of barstools giving him a place to eat if he was not camped out on his sofa or out on the deck. He had never gotten around to buying a table, but figured he might one day if the need arose. And he hoped the need would arise.

The back of the dwelling held one bedroom, a king-sized bed taking up most of the space. When they rebuilt the bungalow, he enlarged the bedroom to accommodate a bed for his stature. At six feet, two inches he needed a big bed—his one luxury after sleeping on the ground or on a bunk. Other than a chest of drawers and a nightstand, the room had a small closet. Across the hall was a bathroom, also enlarged when rebuilt. A shower stall large enough to accommodate him comfortably was also a necessity.

As he approached his home, his pace slowed, seeing his grandfather sitting on his front step. Concerned, he hurried over. “You okay, Pops?”

Finn MacFarlane stared at his oldest grandchild—no longer a child—and grinned. “You run before the sun comes up, son?”

Stepping closer, he sat down next to Finn and replied, “Sometimes.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes.” Brogan did not need to look at his grandfather to know the expression on his face. Finn had the wizened appearance of a man who lived by the sea and spent a lot of time in its elements. His dark hair was now almost snowy white and the crinkles by his Irish blue eyes were from laughs, as well as time in the sun. And, right now, he knew those eyes were filled with concern.

“I remember when you boys would get up early to run before the coach could ride your ass in practice.”

Chuckling, Brogan nodded, “Yeah.”

“Good boys, every one of you. If you saw one of you youngsters in town, you saw the whole gang.”

Brogan smiled at the memories of growing up in Baytown, his childhood playmates becoming teammates as they grew older. They had earned the nickname Baytown Boys and it stuck, even now. “We thought we needed to escape this little town, Pops.”

“Everyone thinks that when they’re growing up, son. I did. Your dad did. Some grow up, leave, and never return. Others leave and realize what they need in life is still back here in this little corner of the world.”

“Most of us did come back,” Brogan mused. He thought of his brother, Aiden, who returned to run Finn’s Pub with him. Mitch Evans and Grant Wilder both returned from their time in the military to work for the Baytown Police Department. Zac Hamilton was now the Fire Chief and Callan Ward was still in the Coast Guard, but stationed at Baytown. Their numbers had grown as they had all invited fellow military friends, with no place to call home, to come live in Baytown.

“Yeah, but most ‘a you all came back with scars deeper than the skin.”

Brogan knew his grandfather was right, but had no response.

“So, you run in the wee hours…”

Sighing, Brogan added, “The physical release is good, Pops. I need the exercise.”

“Might be true, but then it appears to me that you ‘bout run yourself into the ground. You come staggering back here, looking like a man who’s got the devil after him.”

Nodding, Brogan said nothing. What was there to say? Pops was right. Sighing, he shoulder-bumped the older man slightly, asking, “So, did you come by here at the ass crack of dawn just to ride me about my nocturnal running?”

Finn chuckled as he placed his hand on Brogan’s broad shoulder to give him leverage to push himself to a standing position. Grimacing, he cursed, “Damn knees. My body’s wearing out before my mind is ready to let it go.”

Standing quickly, Brogan peered at his beloved grandfather, seeing age where before he had only seen strength. “Pops, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Hell, boy, it’s just a little rheumatism. It’s so early in the morning, my legs haven’t gotten un-stiff yet.”

“So…uh…why did you come by?”

Finn turned his gaze on his grandson and shook his head. “I guess you and me are more alike than I figured.” He allowed his eyes to roam over the beachy yard, the seagrass sprouting up at all angles and the rickety picket fence separating the house from the dune. “You run when you can’t sleep, to forget. I walk when I can’t sleep, to remember.”

“Remember?”

Smiling, Finn replied, “Your grandmother, son.”

“I’m sorry, Pops.” Brogan’s heart squeezed, remembering his grandmother. Petite in size but a hellion when someone hurt her family—and her family included all the kids in the neighborhood.

“I had over fifty years with the most beautiful Irish girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. And when I can’t sleep, I do some walking and the quiet morning allows me to remember all the good times we had.”

Brogan steadied Finn as his grandfather took a step down the path. As Finn made it to the crooked gate, he turned and said, “I know you got demons, son. I know you can’t find your peace. But I also know that life’s passing you by. Make sure you find that special someone so you can make the memories that one day you’ll cherish.”

Brogan watched Finn as he meandered down the dirt road leading to his house. Sucking in a deep breath, he whispered into the sea breeze, “Already have found her, Pops. Already have.” He headed inside to shower, stopping to pet the silky cat swirling about his legs. He wondered if the woman of his dreams would ever know the depths of his feelings. Or would ever reciprocate them.

* * *

Ginny Spencer had watched as Brogan ran by from her seat on the dune above. Unable to sleep, she had run to the beach from her house in the center of town and had not stopped until she collapsed on the north side of Baytown. As her feet rhythmically hit the sand, she had willed her mind to stop the images in her head and her stomach to cease churning. Finally slowing, she had climbed a dune and lay, looking up at the stars dimming as the sun chased them away.

As her breathing slowed, she heard someone’s heavy footsteps coming closer and she sat up, observing Brogan churning up the sand as he hauled ass past her. He stopped further down the beach from where she sat and bent over, his breathing ragged. As it evened out, he continued his run toward his house outside of town. Snorting, she thought, two peas in a pod. Whatever haunted his nights had him out trying to run them off just as she did.

Now, half an hour later, she stepped into her shower, washing off the sweat and letting the water sluice away her stress. Standing underneath the hot spray, she squinted her eyes tightly, her face scrunched in a grimace. Leaning forward, she planted her palms flat on the shower wall. Control. I am in control. Most days she found her mantra to work, but then…other times the memories assaulted in a barrage of images that threatened to overtake her.

Breathe in. Breathe out. She knew the drill and finally the tightness in her chest eased. Shampooing her hair, she allowed her thoughts to move to the man she had watched running on the beach this morning. Brogan. Brogan MacFarlane.

As thoughts of the large, tatted man filled her mind, she slid her soapy hands over her body—ring.

Startled, she jerked her hands away at the sound of her phone ringing, while also jerking her eyes open. Turning, she yelped when the sting of water hit her face. By the time she shut the water off and stepped out of the shower, her phone was no longer ringing. Picking it up, she checked missed calls.

Calling back, she said, “Mildred, sorry, I was in the shower.”

Baytown Police receptionist/dispatcher Mildred Score, efficient as always, said, “Good morning. Chief Evans wanted to let you know the morning meeting would be half an hour earlier today.”

Quickly looking at her watch, Ginny replied, “No problem. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll have coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the diner.”

Grinning, she thanked Mildred before disconnecting. Wiping the steam from the mirror, Ginny stared at herself. Her shoulder length, dark hair was slicked back from her face. At five foot, six inches, she neither felt petite nor tall. Athletic figure, neither willowy nor lush. Average. Totally average.

Forcing her thoughts to step back from the trail they had wandered down, she quickly applied the minimum of make-up before blow-drying her hair. Pulling it up in her usual tight bun, she stepped into her bedroom. Khaki pants and a navy polo with the BPD logo over the breast pocket completed her outfit.

Sliding her socked feet into her shiny, steel-toed boots, she hooked her badge and gun belt on before grabbing her purse, just as her doorbell rang. Throwing open the door, she smiled at the handsome man standing on her front porch.

With a slight nod, she acknowledged, “Grant.”

“Morning, sunshine,” he joked.

Shaking her head, she chuckled. “Yeah, that nickname never really fit, did it?”

Stepping out onto the porch with her fellow officer, she locked her front door. Following him toward the police SUV, she asked, “How’s Jillian?”

Grant Wilder’s upcoming marriage to his high school girlfriend had the town’s attention. It was not every day that one of Baytown’s original golden boys married the town’s prom queen. If both were not so genuinely nice, Ginny would have rolled her eyes. As it were, she was happy for them and even, if she admitted to herself, a little envious.

Grinning, Grant said, “She and the girls are busy planning the wedding. We want to keep it simple, but our parents are probably going to go overboard.” Climbing into the SUV, he kept his eyes forward while saying, “I know Jillian would love to have you join the others in their planning sessions.”

He peeked her way and, trying to ignore his stare, Ginny shook her head slightly. “Not really my scene, Grant.”

“The planning sessions are really just a chance for the girls to get together and have some fun at one of their houses. Usually copious amounts of wine is involved and us guys go pick them up afterwards.”

Keeping her eyes forward as he pulled onto the street heading toward the station, she replied, “I like them well enough, Grant. But hanging with a bunch of women, drinking wine, and talking about weddings is just not my idea of a fun night.” What the hell would I find to talk about?

Nodding his acknowledgment, Grant dropped the subject and they continued to drive in silence the few blocks to the station. For a moment, Ginny closed her eyes trying to imagine sitting around with girlfriends, drinking wine, but, inwardly groaning, she realized her life was so different from the Baytown girls…maybe too different. I’m fine. I like my life just the way it is. Accepting that thought might be wishful thinking, she sighed.