Brooke shut off the part of her mind that wanted to argue, grabbed his hand, stepped on his foot, and before she could blink, found herself seated in front of him. His arms snaked around her, and his fingers wrapped themselves in the strands of the horse’s mane. Asher gave the animal a firm kick in the ribs and set them off in a fast trot. She squeezed her eyes shut and held on to Asher’s wrists.
A single shot split the air and the horse leapt forward into a full-on run. Brooke squealed and ducked her chin against her chest as hooves pounded the hard ground. Please, God, don’t let them hit us or the horse. Please, please, please, please . . .
“Hang on!”
He really didn’t have to tell her that. She went with the motion of the horse. Down a hill, up a hill, down, then up.
The horse slowed and she opened her eyes, almost not quite believing she was still on top and not trampled underneath. The guys who’d been after them were out of sight.
“I think the cops are there,” Asher said. “You can pull your nails out of my wrists now.”
With a gasp she released him, appalled to see thin moon-shaped gouges seeping tiny spots of blood. “I’m so sorry!”
He smiled. “Didn’t even feel it.” He clicked to the horse and then trotted to the top of the next hill. Officers swarmed the area, weapons drawn. “Do you see them?” he asked. “Or the van?”
“It’s gone. I’m sure they ran for it as soon as they realized officers were on the way.”
“Most likely.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Let’s join the good guys back at the farm.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He nudged the horse with his heels, and she gripped Asher’s forearms for balance, making sure she kept her fingernails away from his skin.
“And what do you mean you don’t ride?” he asked. “I thought you said you loved horses.”
“I do. From a distance. They’re beautiful animals, but I’ve never been on the back of one before today.” At least this one was going slow now. She shivered, and he brought one hand up to rub her left arm, then slid his hand over hers. His palm was warm in spite of the chilly weather, and now that the danger was past, she could appreciate his nearness. The solid feel of him at her back gave her comfort in ways words couldn’t express.
“Let’s go see if they caught them,” he said, “or at least have someone in pursuit.”
“We came a long way,” she said, letting herself relax against him. Yep, she liked being in his arms. And, oh boy, she needed not to like that. Right?
“Had to get out of range of the bullets,” he said, “or at least out of sight. Once we were on the other side of the hill, they couldn’t see us. You can’t hit what you can’t see.”
“That was really smart using the horses. You bought us time, then you got us away from them. Thank you,” she said, her voice low.
“Sure. You’re welcome.”
A police Range Rover with flashing blue lights drove through the gate and headed toward them.
“Keep your hands in sight,” Asher said. “They might not realize we’re the good guys yet.”
She did as he said. “Whoa,” Asher said, leaning back, pulling Brooke with him. The horse slowed, finally prancing to a halt. The vehicle stopped in front of them and the officer stepped out. “Brooke Adams?”
“That’s me,” she said.
He spoke into the radio, then dropped it into the vehicle. “That was dispatch wanting to know you’re okay. She was worried when she lost contact with you.”
“I’m fine.” If you didn’t count crashing adrenaline, shaky hands and knees, and the churning nausea at the back of her throat.
“I’m Asher James and we’re really glad to see you guys. Did you catch the two in the black van?”
“No. And by the time a patrol officer got out to the scene with the white SUV, all that was left was evidence of the collision with the tree. Come on and I’ll give you a ride to wherever you need to go.”
“Back to see if my truck’s drivable, I guess.”
“We’ve got officers on the scene there. Once they’re finished, you’re welcome to drive away, call a tow truck, or whatever.”
“Thanks.”
“What was that all about anyway?” the officer asked.
Asher frowned. “I’m not sure.” The officer nodded and stepped over to speak to a fellow cop. Asher glanced at Brooke. “Although, I can’t help but wonder if yesterday and this incident are connected.”
“They have to be,” Brooke said. “And I have a feeling whoever’s after us is just getting started.”
Brooke’s statement still rang in his mind as Asher cranked his truck. After detaching it from the tree with the help of the tow truck, he had found the truck drivable. Most of the damage had been done to the passenger side, but the engine and steering worked fine. He sliced the side air bags off with a knife from his glove box. And he’d found both phones.
Brooke was buckled in to her seat, looking weary but determined.
“Are you sure you want to visit Miranda today?” he asked. “We’re about forty-five minutes away and the sun’s going down in an hour and a half.”
“I’m sure,” she said and set her jaw. “I don’t know what’s going on—and I’ll admit the lack of control over the situation is driving me batty—but this I can do. I can honor a dead man’s last words and try not to feel guilty I haven’t done it sooner.”
“You had your reasons. Don’t beat yourself up about that.”
“But I do, Asher. I beat myself up every day because he’s dead. If I had just—”
She fell silent, and he slowly pulled onto the road and waved a goodbye to the officer who’d driven them in from the pasture.
“Just what?”
“Nothing.”
He glanced at her, but the closed expression on her face didn’t invite him to press. For the next thirty minutes, he drove, watching the mirrors and even the sky. At this point, he was paranoid enough to believe he could be attacked from above.
The whomp-whomp-whomp of the helicopters closing in for rescue sent a wave of relief over him. He stepped out to wave them in, only to realize . . . “Run! Run!”
The rapid rat-a-tat-tat of the mounted weapon blistered the air as the bullets chased him down the hill and around the protruding rock. Ducking behind it, Asher swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead and the bird banked off . . .
He gasped and realized Brooke had laid a hand on his forearm. “Asher?”
“I’m fine.”
He took the most circuitous route he could without diverting them too far off their path. He really wanted to get to Miranda’s before dark.
“Tell me.”
He stayed silent.
“Please,” she whispered.
After a brief search for the right words, he finally clenched his fingers around the wheel, then made a conscious effort to loosen them. “I have . . . blips.”
“Okay. Blips of what?”
“Blips of moments that I lived through.” Barely. “I can function even as I’m having them. I can drive, walk, whatever, but I just sort of zone out for a few seconds.” He drew in a deep breath. “Which is why I decided to see someone—well, between those and the nightmares. Someone who might experience some of the same stuff but know how to . . . deal with it.” He shot her a sideways glance and caught her in a moment of intense vulnerability. Her expression was almost exactly like the one in the picture when she held the dying Isaiah in her arms. Only Asher wasn’t dying—he just felt like he was sometimes. “Stop,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Looking at me that way.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because I don’t need or want your pity.”
“Pity?” She jerked out a laugh. “Right. It’s not pity.”
“Then what?”
“Compassion . . . empathy. I’ve done exactly what you’re talking about a few times—
only mine’s the same thing over and over. Mostly at night. Every once in a while during the day. So, no pity, just the intense understanding of what it feels like.”
“What’s yours?”
She hesitated. “It’s . . . I’m . . . I’ve never put it into words before.”
“Maybe it’s time.”
“I’m burning alive. And I watch . . .” Her heart pounded as the images swirled full force.
“Watch what?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“My arms fall off. My face melts and I’m finally just a skeleton.”
A shudder rippled through him. He had a feeling that was the short, sanitized version. Before he could ask for more details, he noted the exit just ahead and knew there wouldn’t be time to press her for more. He’d take a left at the top of the exit, then two rights, and Miranda’s house would be in the neighborhood on the left. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I wish I could stop seeing it, dreaming about it, thinking about it. But it’s only been four months, so maybe one day I will. I hope one day you will too.” She shot him a tight smile and Asher’s respect for her rose a little higher. She blew out a low breath. “This is it, huh?”
“This is it.”
Brooke steeled herself to meet Isaiah’s wife. She had no idea if the woman hadn’t called her back because she was still in the midst of grieving and adapting to life as a widow—or if she just didn’t want to hear from Brooke.
If it was the second reason, Brooke was at a loss as to why.
Whatever the case, she was about to find out. The ranch house sat back from the road on about an acre of land. A thin line of trees surrounded the property. “Even though it’s in a neighborhood, it’s peaceful, quiet,” she said.
“It’s nice,” Asher said. He pointed. “There’s a car in the drive.”
“And there’s one of her kids peeking out the window.”
The little face disappeared and the front door opened before Brooke or Asher got to the bottom step. A young woman in her midthirties dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater stepped out onto the porch. She wrapped a fleece blanket around her shoulders as the wind whipped her dark hair back from her face. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Hi,” Brooke said. “Are you Miranda Michaels?”
“I am.”
“I’m Brooke Adams and this is Asher James. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
Miranda’s eyes chilled. “I got your messages.”
“Okay, then—”
“And I didn’t call you back for a reason. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“But why?” Brooke asked. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re Army!” The snapped words hung in the cold air. “I don’t want anything to do with the Army or anyone in it ever again.”
“Ma’am?” Asher stepped forward and placed a hand on the porch railing. “Isaiah loved the Army and everything it represented. What’s turned your attitude about it?”
She clutched the blanket tighter against her throat. “They’re saying he was a traitor, that he betrayed his country and his unit by selling information to the enemy about American troop locations and ops that would happen, allowing ambushes and lives lost.” She tightened her lips even as a tear escaped to trail down a pale cheek. “Well, that’s a lie. I may not know the details of what all went on over there, but I do know my husband. And he would never do something like that. And they’re taking away his benefits. So, not only have I lost him, I’ve lost everything he’s worked so hard for . . . died for. That’s not the Army he loved and served, and it’s not one I want anything to do with. My husband was not a traitor.” Her chest heaved with her emotion, and Brooke’s heart broke at the grief and betrayal—the sheer anguish in her words.
“I don’t think he was either,” Brooke said.
“Me either,” Asher said.
Miranda stilled, her expression softening. She dashed away the tears. “Well, someone believes it.”
“I know,” Asher said. “Unfortunately, Isaiah never got a chance to refute the accusation.”
“He did by text.” She pulled her phone from her back pocket, tapped the screen, then turned it so Asher and Brooke could see the words.
“‘Don’t believe them,’” Brooke read aloud. “‘I’m not a traitor. I know it looks bad, but—’” She looked up at Miranda. “I think he meant to say more, but he sent it only partially finished.”
A wail came from inside the house. “Mama!”
Miranda glanced over her shoulder and took a step back. “You really believe he’s innocent?”
“Absolutely,” Brooke said.
Another cry sent the woman hurrying toward the door. “Look, why don’t you two come in? I need to check on my kids.”
Thankful for the thaw in the woman’s demeanor, Brooke followed her inside to chaos. Miranda expertly dodged the scattered toys as though walking through a field of land mines. She glanced over her shoulder as she scooped an infant from the playpen. “The only thing I can think of is that he got interrupted and sent what he had,” she said.
“Because he was worried he wouldn’t have a chance later,” Asher said, brows drawn over the bridge of his nose.
“Possibly.” Miranda settled the child on her hip. “Actually, probably.”
“What day and time did that text come through?” Asher asked.
One-handed, Miranda checked her phone and told him.
Brooke sucked in a breath. “That’s the day of the bombing. The day he died.”
“How did he know that he was under suspicion?” Asher asked.
The woman switched the child to her other hip, exhaustion and grief etched on her features like they’d been chiseled there. “I don’t know.”
Asher held out his hands and the baby practically threw himself into them. Brooke startled and Miranda breathed a sigh of relief.
“Mommy, I’m thirsty.” The small voice came from the entrance to the hallway. An older toddler stood shyly in the doorway, one foot balanced on top of the other. Her dark eyes took in everything.
Brooke smiled at her and the child moved to her mother’s side. “This is Erin,” Miranda said, smoothing the child’s hair behind her ears. “She’s three, almost four.”
Erin tugged on her mother’s shirt in a silent reminder that she was thirsty. Miranda rubbed her eyes. “Your cup is in the refrigerator. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll just keep this little guy for you while you take care of Erin,” Asher said, expertly holding the boy against his chest.
“Okay, thank you. His name is Zac.”
She and Erin disappeared in the small kitchen off the living area, and Brooke turned to scan the room. It looked like any other middle-class home. Pictures of family on the walls, in need of a good dusting, but basically clean and definitely lived in. Brooke pulled the charm bracelet from her pocket and settled it in the palm of her hand. She’d cleaned Isaiah’s blood from it and now it gleamed innocently up at her.
A thud cut through her thoughts. Asher’s keys had hit the hardwood floor. Zac lunged for them and only Asher’s protective hold kept the child from going the same route as the keys. “This little guy is a wiggle worm,” he said. He knelt and snagged the keys. Zac grabbed them with a giggle and shook them, narrowly missing Asher’s right ear.
Brooke marveled at his complete calm in handling the little boy. “Where’d you get your kid experience?”
“I have a cousin with four munchkins I adore.” He leaned over to take a closer look at the bracelet. “It’s pretty.”
“It really is. And unique. Each little charm is so different. Isaiah put a lot of thought into this.” She closed her hand around it.
Miranda returned with Erin on her hip. The little girl chugged her drink.
“Did you survive Dr. Destructo?” Miranda asked.
Asher laughed. “He’s fine. A very energetic little guy.”
Miranda’s eye roll pulled a smile from Brooke and she turned her head sligh
tly to hide it. She couldn’t figure out why Asher’s “kid competence” impressed her so much. Maybe because she simply had no skills in that department whatsoever.
“So,” Brooke said, “Isaiah never mentioned anything he was working on? Any special projects?”
“No, nothing. He didn’t talk about what he did and I knew better than to ask.”
Brooke held out the bracelet. “Isaiah gave me this the day he died. I think he wanted me to give it to you.”
Miranda set the little girl on the floor. “You can go watch television for a few minutes, okay?”
“I can? Yippee!”
She skipped down the hall and Miranda gave a fond, if tired, smile. “I don’t let her watch it very often.” She took the bracelet from Brooke and frowned. “This wouldn’t be for me.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “Because he already gave me one.” She shoved her sleeve up and a matching charm bracelet wrapped her wrist. “I don’t wear a lot of jewelry.” She shook her wrist. “And especially not something that makes that much noise, but Isaiah brought it home for Christmas last year and I can’t bring myself to take it off for long. I wear long sleeves and cover it up when I wear it—it helps me when I’m really missing him.” She shook her wrist again and a small, sad smile curved her lips. “The noise makes me crazy. And yet . . .” She met Brooke’s gaze. “Isaiah loved this kind of stuff and was always telling me I didn’t know what I was missing. Maybe he got it for you. After all, you were the one helping him get past his PTSD—or at least you were offering coping strategies that he said were working for him.”
Asher’s flinch wouldn’t have been noticed by the average person, but for some reason, Brooke was so in tune with him she couldn’t help but see it. “He never said . . .”
“He wouldn’t. Not to you. But he said you talked even when he wouldn’t and he finally started listening and figured he’d try some of the things you recommended. He admitted it helped.”
Brooke’s throat tightened. The things she’d recommended had been shots in the dark. “I’m glad.”
Collateral Damage Page 13
