The Price of Valor

by Susan May Warren

  “Hamilton Jones, whattaya know?” Dan gripped his hand. He wore a pair of cargo pants and a flannel shirt, sported a baseball hat. A couple frozen pizzas sat on the counter, waiting for checkout. “Date night,” Dan said, nodding to the pizzas.

  “Not a bad idea.” Ham headed to the frozen section to grab dinner.

  Dan was waiting for him when he returned. “You going to be around for a while?”

  “I don’t know. A week or two.”

  “Maybe we can get in some fishing. Think you can handle a rod and reel in that cast?”

  “That’s not the problem. I got skunked the last time we went out. I’m not sure the fish like me.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re there. You just have to keep trying. Find the right bait, the right hiding place. Coax them out.” He picked up his pizzas. “It’s like being a Minnesota Vikings fan. No matter how many times they choke in the fourth quarter, we still keep trying, right?”

  Ham laughed, and Aggie came walking up. She took Ham’s hand.

  “Who is this?” Dan asked, smiling down at Aggie.

  “This is my daughter,” Ham said.

  “I’m sorry we’ve never met before.” He shook her hand.

  Ham nodded. “Honey, go on out to the truck. I’ll be right out.”

  Dan watched her go. Raised an eyebrow.

  “Her mom and I were separated for a long time,” Ham said. “But we’re back together . . . sort of, and . . .” He ran a hand around the back of his neck. Now was not the time, but . . .

  “Ham, I’ve discovered in nearly eighteen years of marriage that the key to a good marriage is sacrifice. Setting aside what you want for the good of someone else. It’s a daily surrender. And really, it’s not about us, right? It’s about being Jesus every day to the people we love. Grace. Hope. Kindness. Forgiveness and truth.”

  “Right.”

  “Call me if you want to go fishing.” Dan pushed outside.

  Coax them out. Keep trying. Sacrifice. Surrender.

  Be Jesus every day.

  Okay, Lord. He bought the pizzas and got back into the truck.

  “Who were you talking to?” Signe asked.

  “Just a fishing buddy,” Ham said. “Ready? The cabin is just a few miles up the road.”

  “Yes.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I think this place is magical.”

  That’s what he was hoping for.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OH, SPECIAL OPERATOR HAM knew exactly what he was doing when he packed his family into his truck and drove to the end of the earth to a gorgeous two-story home deep in the woods of northern Minnesota.

  What he called a cabin she termed a six-bedroom vacation home with a home theater, gourmet kitchen, great room, an expansive deck that overlooked the lake, and the whisper of safety and calm in the thick fir trees that surrounded the property.

  When he’d said “off the grid,” she’d expected an outhouse. Gas lighting. A hand pump for water. A rickety futon in the family room.

  He gave her the master bedroom, with the Jacuzzi tub and the view overlooking the lake.

  She noticed he dumped his things in the bedroom downstairs, next to Aggie’s. Interesting. And, he hadn’t said under his breath or otherwise—not even once—the word husband.

  She tried not to let it get under her skin, irk her as he made pizza, then played a game of Sorry! with Aggie, who giggled every time he sent her piece back to home with an exaggerated “Sorry!”

  The man was the perfect father. Sweet, engaging, and when he swung Aggie into his arms to whisk her off to her bed, singing “You Are My Sunshine,” Signe physically hurt, her body a knot of confusion.

  How could she leave this man?

  No, how could she take Aggie from her father? They still weren’t safe, with Martin on the loose, but Aggie was safe with Ham, Signe knew it to her soul.

  Signe made hot cocoa and went out to the deck, taking a blanket with her as she sat on the swing, staring at the stars. The wind carried a nip and scurried broken leaves across the deck, but the blanket trapped the heat.

  Ham slid the door closed. “Sorry that took so long. Aggie wanted me to read the rest of her book with her.”

  “Did Dakin find her prince?”

  “Again, yes.” Ham grinned, then knelt and turned on the burner to the fire table. Flames burst to life, flickering up through the clear rocks.

  “Wow. You thought of everything.”

  “You have room under that blanket for me?”

  Oh. Uh.

  His smile fell. “Sorry. I just—”

  “Yes.” She scooted over on the swing and held up one side of the blanket.

  “You sure, Sig? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  Husband. She nearly said it but bit it back.

  Still. “I’m getting chilly. Yes or no?”

  “Yes.” He sat down and pulled the blanket over his lap, then stretched his arm out behind her. She didn’t lean into him, but she could if she wanted to.

  Maybe she wanted to.

  She stared at the flames, her hands around the mug. “Hard to believe that three days ago, we were escaping a volcano.”

  “More like four, but yes.” His voice was soft, and he rocked the swing slightly.

  “I hope Gio and his mom are okay.”

  “I asked Lieutenant Hollybrook to check on them.”

  Of course he had.

  “Look!” He pointed to the sky. “A shooting star.”

  The stars spilled into the wash of the Milky Way, so vivid she could reach out and touch them. “I don’t see it.”

  “I guess it’s just my wish, then.”

  “What did you wish for?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Remember that night on the rock when—”

  “When I said that God names the stars?”

  She looked at him.

  “I was thinking the same thing, is all. That in my wildest dreams, I never thought . . .” He drew in a breath. “I never thought I’d see you again. But sometimes, before Chechnya, I’d be in country, on watch, or on a night mission and the sky would be particularly clear and I’d think about you.”

  He met her eyes.

  Yes, she remembered that night, that sky. Because that was the night he’d kissed her for the first time.

  He swallowed, looked away.

  So maybe he was thinking about that kiss too.

  “I didn’t always live in the camp,” Signe said. “Tsarnaev had an estate outside Tbilisi, in the republic of Georgia, and we went there sometimes when he was doing international business.”

  He’d tensed next to her, but she kept talking. “My room had a balcony off the second floor, and at night, I’d sit out there and look at the stars and . . .” She set her cocoa on the fire table. “Ham, you were never far from my thoughts.”

  He said nothing, his breaths rising and falling.

  “Do you think Scarlett will be able to crack the code?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you think we’ll find Martin?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We will.” He said it in his former warrior’s voice. The voice that she’d heard in her head every time she thought about contacting him.

  The one that said he would do anything for her. Even die.

  That, she could not live with.

  She gave in to the urge to lean her head against his shoulder. He smelled good—maybe the soap from his morning shower, but also the scent of Ham—strong, sure, right, big, safe. Her eyes were trained on the sky when she spotted a star unlatch, arc, sweep through the night in a blaze of quick light. “There!” She sat up, pointing. “Did you see it?”

  He was looking at her, a heat in his eyes. “Nope.”

  Oh. His gaze found her core, lit it on fire. No, no . . .

  “That’s your wish this time,” he said, his tone burrowing under her skin.

  Her wish. Oh, she couldn’t bear to voice it. Her eyes burned.

&n
bsp; No!

  “Signe?”

  “I wish I’d never walked away from you.”

  “You’re not supposed to say your wish.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” She swallowed. “There it is.”

  “I wished the same thing.”

  She looked at him. “Perfect. Now neither of us will get our wish.”

  “Or maybe we can.” He curled his hand behind her neck. “I love you, Signe. And I know you’ve got scars, but God brought you back to me, and I don’t want to let you go.”

  Ham. She pressed her hand to his chest, right over his heart. “I mess everything up. I shouldn’t have married you like I did—”

  “But you did. We did—and now we have Aggie, and everything is different.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “It’s not. I’m still on the run. I’m still trouble—”

  “And I’m still here, running to your rescue.”

  “And nearly getting yourself killed. Ham . . . I’m not worth it.”

  “What? Yes, you are.” He turned her face to meet his. “You are worth it to me.”

  Shoot.

  Then he lowered his mouth to hers, and she hadn’t a bone in her body that wanted to resist, so she lifted her chin and met his kiss.

  Soft, gentle, the kind of kiss he’d given her so long ago, on the rock overlooking the river. The kind of kiss that hinted at a deep fear that he’d somehow scare her away.

  Not tonight.

  If she left, it wouldn’t be because she was scared of Ham.

  His heart thundered under her hand, and she sank into him, deepening her kiss. It took only a moment, but he responded with enough hooyah that she recognized the younger version of him. His whiskers scraped her face and he tasted of the night, of safety and hope and all the things she’d remembered and wanted.

  All the things she’d married and lost.

  And now, found. Ham.

  He deserved to have his wife back.

  She curled her hands into his shirt, about to suggest more when he broke away, his breathing a little hard. “Sig, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

  “Husband,” she said quietly.

  His mouth opened slightly. “Really? Are you sure? I mean, I want to be all in, but only if you—uh . . .” His gaze held hers. “I love you. But maybe we should wait until we’ve gotten to know each other again.”

  “I know you, Ham. And you know me and—”

  “You married someone else.”

  She stilled. But maybe she deserved that. “The ceremony with Tsarnaev wasn’t official—not really. I’m still . . .”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Yours. She couldn’t say the word.

  No. She could never belong to a man again. Tsarnaev had made that term ugly and suffocating. “I’m still married, legally, only to you.”

  He considered her. “I can’t give myself to you again, can’t hold you in my arms and survive you walking out of my life. Last time . . .” He blew out a breath. “It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t myself for a long, long time.”

  The power of his confession, the deep opening of his heart shook through her. She’d thought he’d forgotten about her. Moved on.

  Found someone else to love.

  Clearly not. Maybe he loved her too much, and that scared her to her bones. Because he just might pull her into his vortex and then . . .

  She wouldn’t survive leaving him, either.

  It simply . . . she couldn’t . . . Except, maybe she could. Just like she had with Pavel, she could put on a role. Give Ham what he wanted without sacrificing her heart.

  She leaned in and kissed him again, put more ardor into it, ran her hand over his chest.

  He caught her wrist, then leaned away from her, frowning. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you. But I’m here, now, and I know you want to be with me, right?”

  His expression darkened. “Wait. Signe, do you think . . . are you doing this because you think I expect this?”

  She stilled.

  “No. Not like this. Not like . . . Signe, there’s so much between us and—”

  “Fine. No problem.” She leaned away, smiled. “It’s all good.” Aw, and for a girl who knew how to push her feelings into a corner and ignore them, her chest was hurting, her eyes smarting.

  She was a stupid, out-of-the-box mess.

  “Signe—let’s talk about this—”

  A scream echoed down the hallway, out past the slightly open sliding door.

  “Aggie!” Signe found her feet.

  He was already at the door, sliding it open.

  Signe was the first one through. She ran down the hall. Aggie was thrashing in her bed, screaming, her stuffed animals on the floor. Signe flicked on the light. “Aggie!” She sat down on her bed and grabbed her arms. “Aggie, wake up. Wake. Up.”

  Aggie’s eyes opened and she stared first at Signe, then Ham, then back. “Mama!” She broke into tears.

  Signe gathered her into her arms, pulling her tight, rocking her. “It was just a dream, honey. Just a bad dream.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t!” Aggie pushed away from her. “I saw him!”

  The sheer terror in her tone raised the hairs on Signe’s neck. “Who?”

  “Daa!”

  Signe froze. “What? When?”

  “Saw who?” Ham said from behind them.

  “Oh, honey. No, Daa is not . . . he’s never going to scare you again.”

  “Who. Is. Daa?”

  Signe held up her hand to Ham and the tremor of fury in his voice.

  “I saw him from the Ferris wheel!”

  Signe stilled, turned to look at Ham. “What is she talking about?”

  Ham wore a stricken expression. “What are you saying, Aggie? Who is Daa?”

  “It’s Tsarnaev. He made her call him—”

  “Father.” Ham’s mouth made a tight, lethal line.

  Signe nodded.

  Ham crouched next to the bed. “When you say you saw him at the Ferris wheel—”

  “That night. When I went to get cotton candy. There was a man there—he talked to you.”

  Ham was frowning.

  “What is she talking about?” Signe said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “The man, Daddy! The man you were with.”

  “I don’t remember—oh.”

  Signe raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  Ham took Aggie’s hand. “No, honey. That was just a stranger. He had kids riding on the Ferris wheel. He looked Middle Eastern, but we have a lot of immigrants here, sweetheart. They’re not terrorists.”

  Her eyes were wide. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Signe said. “Daa is . . . he is gone. And he’s not coming back.”

  Aggie reached for her unicorn and Signe handed it to her. “Lie down, sweetie. Mama will be right here.”

  She got up. Ham rose too.

  “Ham—”

  “I get it,” he said quietly, holding up his hand. “I’m going to make a call anyway.”

  “I thought we were off the grid.”

  He made a wry face. “I have a sat phone in my office.”

  Of course he did.

  “See you in the morning,” she said, and pressed her hand to his cheek. “I promise.” And for some reason, the words took hold of her bones.

  Shoot, because she had a bad feeling that she meant it.

  Signe had left him.

  No, she’d lied, then left him.

  Ham stood barefoot on the front step of his cabin, staring at the empty dirt driveway where his truck sat just last night. What?

  “Signe!” His shout, more agony than question, laced the air, the sky overcast and dour. “Signe!”

  Wow, he was a fool. Because he’d actually believed her last night.

  Believed because of the way she’d kissed him, at least the first time, and by the tenor of her voice, that they had a real chance at happily ever after. “Husband
,” she’d said.

  Yeah, right.

  Ham stepped back inside and shut the door, pressing his hand against it, trying to keep from unraveling.

  He’d stayed up late talking to the coroner in Italy he’d met a few months ago, asking him to confirm DNA on the corpse that had been washed ashore. The one identified as Pavel Tsarnaev.

  Aggie’s dream had loosed a worry in his bones he couldn’t shake.

  Then, the fatigue of the past few days had caught up to him and, after checking on Signe and Aggie tucked together in the queen bed, he’d fallen hard into his own bed.

  He woke to the honking of Canadian geese and the patter of rain on the window. And a deafening silence throughout the house.

  When he checked Aggie’s room, her stuffed animals were gone. All of them, including the moose, and even her bag was missing.

  Signe’s clothing bag was untouched, but then again, he didn’t expect her to take anything with her. Nothing that he could use to identify her, probably.

  That’s when he went out to the empty driveway and called himself every kind of fool.

  Now, he pulled on a T-shirt, a flannel shirt, and a pair of jeans, shoved his feet into boots, and headed toward the door.

  She was probably headed for the Canadian border, less than an hour away.

  Hopefully, she didn’t have that large of a lead on him.

  He opened the garage door and headed to his dirt bikes, still grimy after last year’s outing with Jake. Pain shot up his wrist as he pulled one of the bikes off its kickstand, but it wasn’t untenable.

  Not like the pain in his chest.

  He grabbed his helmet, shoved it on. Then wheeled the bike out of the garage, threw his leg over the seat, and kick-started it.

  Mud spit up as he spun the bike around and headed to the road.

  Please, Lord, let me catch her.

  And even with the prayer, a terrible fury burned through him.

  How could she?

  His wrist burned as he motored to the highway. He turned and rode on the shoulder, north.

  The drizzle had died to simply a mist in the crisp air, the lake angry, edged with spittle as it crashed upon the rocky shore. The rain had turned the shoulder spongy, and he wrestled with the bike as he motored over ruts and weeds and mud, the burn in his wrist spiking through him.