“The Triple M is a good place to catch your breath. To heal. To find yourself. And, you’re family now, honey.”
He’d put his arm around her then, something quick, but substantial enough to seep warmth into her aching bones.
Then he’d turned her, and she’d seen them standing at the edge of the dirt drive into the cemetery. Knox, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, and Tate, in his Army uniform, freshly out of bootcamp. Ford, also dressed in a suit, looking young and fierce, just sprouting whiskers. And RJ, her friend’s face reddened also wearing black.
And Wyatt, looking up at her through his long hair.
They all had waited for her, just on the edge of the property.
You’re family now.
The problem wasn’t that she hadn’t been a Marshall but that she’d never seen herself as one of them. Hadn’t walked into the embrace and protection and identity as a Marshall.
She always considered herself a refugee, looking in, not belonging.
Not embracing the inheritance of the family who wanted to adopt her.
You still have that home, honey.
Tears ran into her ears as she lay in the heat of the camper, staring up at the window cut into the ceiling. Trees swayed in the breeze.
What if she stopped holding back, afraid of being abandoned and…gave over her heart? Not just to Wyatt, but the family who wanted her.
The God who wanted her.
Commit yourself to the Lord. Let Him deliver you. Let Him rescue you, because He delights in you.
The tape muted her words, but she heard them in her head. “Please, God. Forgive me for being afraid. Forgive me for always taking my life into my own hands. I need You to rescue me. Please—rescue me!”
You don’t have to fix this, Coco. When you are weak, He is strong. Because to Him, you belong.
Belong. Her own words rang back to her. I wanted to be a Marshall with everything inside me.
Yeah, well, what would a Marshall do if they were tied up with a bomb strapped to their body?
Knox would think his way out maybe, and Tate would have never gotten here in the first place. Ford would use what he had, and RJ would file back through her research to figure out some hidden answer. Wyatt…
Wyatt wouldn’t give up. Wyatt never gave up.
If she could just stay alive, he would find her, she knew it in her bones.
Think. The duct tape had half-ripped off her mouth, but she couldn’t just lay here and scream. Still she worked off the tape with her tongue, enough to breathe.
“Help! Help!” But her voice was muffled inside the trailer.
Besides, who knew where she was?
Think!
Her captor had zipped up the bomb over her body, and it didn’t have a dead man’s switch, so probably she could take it off without it exploding.
If she could take it off, she could simply run, leave it here to explode.
She was still taped up, sure, but she could reach the window, kick it out. Squeeze through.
And…the man had said that he didn’t want her noises to upset anyone—so there’d be people around where he left her.
Hopefully people who could call the police.
You’re so small. I was always worried I’d crush you.
She was small. And this vest was big. And he had made the mistake of wrapping it around her body like a burrito.
Or a hotdog bun.
She leaned up, and with her mouth grabbed the zipper of the vest, and slowly, her neck aching, managed to move it down an inch, maybe two.
Enough to get her head through the opening.
Then she pushed herself up on the bed to give herself room, bore down, and began to wiggle.
Her body moved inside the vest. She drew in a breath, brought her shoulder blades in and moved her hips.
The vest stayed, her body moved.
Her chin disappeared beneath the collar of the neck.
Yes!
She wiggled harder—
Something snapped. She didn’t know what she’d done, but she’d seen movies and knew that probably the vest wasn’t made for tampering with.
The beeping started again.
No—!
She pulled her feet along the bed, her hands now clearing the outside of the vest. Gripping the lower edge of the vest, she fought to push it over her head. The vest fully engulfed her head now, but a couple more pushes and she slid free.
She scrambled onto her knees.
Yes, the timer was counting down, two minutes from detonation.
She moved the vest aside, rolled to her back, brought up her legs, and kicked the skylight hard. It cracked, but didn’t shatter.
Covering her face, she kicked it again, and the glass broke, sheeting down on top of her, the glass littering the bed around her.
Birds chirruped, as if cheering her on.
She eased her head through the opening, aware of the jagged glass around the edges, but what choice did she have? She wiggled one shoulder through without cutting herself, but the next grazed a crease down her arm.
She could call for help, but the parking lot was empty. Her captor had set her in the corner of the parking lot of —oh, no.
She was back at the Children’s Hospital.
Coco dragged herself up and stood on the bed, stuck at waist height, her legs still bound.
One minute. She had to get out.
You are strong, maya lapichka. You will survive this.
Yes, she would.
She jumped off the bed, lunging out of the window toward the curved back of the camper. The glass bit into her body, and she cried out as it tore into her, but she fell off the back side of the camper.
Rolled.
She hit the sidewalk, the pathway that circled the hospital, and for a second lay there, the wound in her gut threatening to curl her into herself.
Not yet.
Run!
She rolled over to her knees and tried to hop and scrabble toward the forest.
The explosion blew her forward, propelling her into the woods and shrubbery.
She slammed against a massive cedar tree. It shucked out her breath, and she dropped hard, the world spinning.
The fire turned to an inferno ten feet away, spitting off debris, embers, and black smoke, the heat blistering her skin.
Coco let out a scream as she lay like a worm, unable to move under the lethal haze of black smoke.
Sparks fell to the earth, lighting puddles of fire around her.
Closing in.
15
Get up.
“C’mon, Wyatt, there’s nothing you can do.”
Sirens sounded in the distance, probably someone having alerted the police to the inferno in the Children’s Hospital parking lot.
But he heard the siren in his brain, resounding over and over.
Get up.
Get back in the game!
One more failure, taking him down. Only this one he wouldn’t come back from—
A scream.
It lifted from beyond the inferno, maybe. Or perhaps just his own imagination, mingling with the siren.
Still, it jerked him to his feet.
York was staring at the fire, his gaze almost fierce, his jaw tight.
Tate, however, was watching Wyatt as if afraid for him.
“Did you hear that?”
Tate met his eyes. His brother always wore an edge in his expression, but maybe loving Glo had filed it away because he looked at him with compassion. “No, bro, I didn’t.”
“She’s alive—”
Tate put his hand on his shoulder. “Stop. No, you’re just going to get yourself killed.”
Wyatt pushed him away, throwing up an arm to protect himself from the blaze. Black smoke spiraled out from the edges of the car, the camper, the roar almost deafening. “I am not leaving without her!”
“Wyatt!”
Red-hot embers sprayed into the nearby woodland at the edge of the parking lot, lighting i
t aflame.
“This is a job for the fire department.”
Another scream. This one high and piercing, and he looked at Tate. “Did you hear that?”
Tate cocked his head.
Oh please, let her not be inside the camper burning to death!
He ran over to the camper. It was engulfed, glass breaking, more sparks spitting free. Maybe he could get inside from the back—
Blood.
He spotted a puddle of red turning to black on the sidewalk under the heat of the fire.
“Coco!”
He skirted the fire already burning into the woods.
And spotted her.
She lay curled against a tree, her knees drawn up, bleeding from her head, her arm, a terrible pool of blood on her shirt.
She’d turned her face away from the flames, her jaw gritted against the heat.
“Coco!”
His voice jerked her, but he wasn’t waiting.
A bush lit next to her, spot fires roaring between them, but Wyatt didn’t care.
“Wyatt!”
He wasn’t sure whose voice lifted behind him as he sprinted toward her.
He took a breath and dove into the furnace.
His still-wet clothes steamed as he knelt in front of her and scooped her up.
“Hang on, Cookie.” Then he sprinted back out through the flames. Fire licked his legs but couldn’t latch onto the wet material. He carried her beyond the fire, into the parking lot, to where York met them.
York had shucked his coat, wrapping it around her as Wyatt set her down.
Tate had gone to the SUV.
Wyatt knelt over her, not sure where to start.
She’d cut her head, but that seemed more like a pressure gash.
York took out a knife and rolled her over, tearing her arms free. She gasped, moaning as he moved her arm around. “She’s got a pretty bad gash—”
“My stomach—” She moved her hands over her body, and Wyatt caught them in one hand and moved them away as York lifted her shirt.
Blood ran from a deep, jagged wound just below her ribs, as if she’d been stabbed.
“Did he do this?”
She leaned her head back, gasping, and Wyatt cradled her against him.
“No—I broke the window—” She was breathing hard, clearly in pain. But she looked up, found his eyes. “You came for me.”
He stared at her. “Of course I did.”
Then, suddenly, she began to weep, her body shaking. “You came after me.”
Oh, Coco. “I should have come for you years ago.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, perilously close to weeping himself.
Tate landed on his knees next to them, zipping open a medical kit and pulling out a cloth. He pressed it over her wound. “Hang in there, Coco. Help is on its way.”
The sirens screamed closer, and in a moment, a firetruck peeled into the lot, followed by two more.
“Did you get him?”
“Yeah. He’s dead. Shot.”
She pressed her hand against his shirt. “You’re wet.”
“Long story. I’m okay.” He folded his hand over hers. “And you’re going to be okay too.” He followed his words by glancing at Tate.
His brother met his eyes but had nothing for him.
An EMT ran over and knelt next to Tate.
“She has a penetrating gut wound,” Tate said.
The man unzipped his bag. “Keep pressure on it.” He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it to her chest.
Coco kept her gaze on Wyatt. “Is Mikka—”
“He’s with my mom.”
She nodded and folded her fingers between his. “He has leukemia.”
“I know, baby. We’ll get through this, I promise. I’m so sorry I ran away—I was just—”
“Freaking out. I get it. I’ve done that a few times myself.”
He was crying now, and he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. “No more running, for either of us.”
She touched his face. “I’m ready to go home, Wyatt.”
“Her blood pressure is dropping,” the EMT said, ripping off the cuff. “We need to get her into the ER.”
Wyatt made to pick her up, but another EMT had arrived with a board. He helped move her onto it, strapping her in.
Then Wyatt took one corner as they ran with her to the ambulance.
“Wyatt?”
“I’m here, baby.”
He climbed into the back, glaring at the EMT, just in case he thought he might stop him. Not a chance. Wyatt took her hand. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving. I promise.”
Because, hello, he’d gone to Russia to find the woman he loved.
And he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight.
Ever again.
Because he was a Marshall.
And Marshalls kept their promises.
She was back on the ranch. Coco knew it without even opening her eyes, hearing Knox’s deep laughter filter up the stairs from the great room. And Tate’s voice, too, as he was probably throwing something at him from across the room.
She sank into the smells of the ranch, cotton sheets and the deep scent of worked leather, the tangy oil from the timber beams.
Safe.
“Boys, don’t be so loud, you’ll wake her.” Could be Gerri, probably with her apron on, making breakfast.
“She’s slept too long anyway.” RJ, her voice soft, almost anxious.
Sunlight bathed her eyes. She’d overslept, as usual, but if she opened them, the sunshine would stripe her bed through the slats in the shades.
“She’s going to be fine.”
Wyatt. Softer still, closer, and something about the concern in his voice tugged at her.
That and…what was he doing home? But her pulse leaped at the thought of seeing him. Maybe he was home on break but—
Wait. Her eyes blinked open, and for a moment, she had nothing.
Then the world rushed at her and she woke up fast, whimpering. Sterile room, gray walls, the cool rush of oxygen in her nose.
“Babe. You’re okay.” Wyatt, standing over her.
Wow, he was handsome. Even with his bloodshot eyes, the worry lines in his brow. His beard had thickened, deepened, and he wore a flannel shirt. She had the urge to reach up and trace the flattened line where his nose had been broken so long ago.
But when she moved her hand, it pinched.
She looked over, found her left arm bandaged. And a gathering of Marshalls standing in the room. Gerri, RJ, Tate, and yes, even Knox. He stood with a woman with long brown hair, his arm over her shoulder.
And standing with Tate, a pretty, petite blonde.
“Hey,” said Tate. “Welcome back, Sugarplum.”
She smiled at his stupid nickname for her.
“You had us worried,” Knox said. He had always intimidated her a little—the man was as somber as midnight. But he had a fierce loyalty about him that made her want to stand in the cast of his shadow. Now, he walked up to her, touched her leg with his strong hand, squeezed. “I knew you were the brave one.”
RJ nodded. “Yeah, you should have seen her in Russia—”
“Let’s not talk about Russia,” Wyatt said. “Ever again.”
Behind Wyatt, York made a sound, something of a harrumph. He was leaning against the window. “Fat chance there, champ. You went to Russia, and Russia followed you home.”
Coco frowned at him.
“Give it a rest, York,” Wyatt said.
“No, what is he talking about?”
RJ rubbed her arms, glanced at Tate, then Knox. “Ma and I found a dead body yesterday at a hotel. We think Damien Gustov set us up.”
Coco’s eyes widened.
“Guys, really? Right now? She just had surgery.” Wyatt took her hand. “You’re going to be okay. You made a mess of your small intestines, but they put you back together. But you have a lot of scar tissue, I’m afraid.”
He eased himself into a chair, the movemen
t tightening the muscles around his eyes.
“You’re hurt—what happened?”
“He’s fine,” Tate said. “Just made the papers with his super fabulous hockey hands, catching the cell phone that saved your life.”
“I fell and landed on my hip. It’s a little sore.”
She tried to ease herself up, but winced, and Wyatt was right there, moving her hospital bed up.
“But I’m right. This is not over, unfortunately,” York said. “Even if we are taking this time-out. My guess is that Damien Gustov fired the shot that killed your bomber.”
“Which means he was the one firing at me, at the podium?” Wyatt said.
“He fired at you?”
“Just before I was going to sell out Jackson to the world with the news that she’s some kind of Russian double agent.”
“Which is crazy talk,” said the blonde woman standing near Tate.
“No one is disputing that, Princess Leia, so calm down.” Tate took her hand. “But the question is, why did Kobie make up his story—”
“How about to derail the election?” the blonde said. “Because he doesn’t want a woman in power who is a moderate and might actually unite the parties?”
“Down, girl,” Tate said. He turned to Coco. “Glo is just super protective of her mother’s run for office.”
Her mother?
“RJ, can you verify his story about his brother and being a POW?” Tate asked.
“Once the senator reinstates me, yes,” RJ said.
“She’s working on it,” Tate said.
“I can’t believe we found the second bomber,” Knox said. He had his arm around the brunette, his fingers laced through her hand, and Coco took a guess—Kelsey, his girlfriend.
Kelsey seemed serious, like Knox, a little hesitant to smile, but when she looked at him, she fairly glowed.
Good. Knox deserved someone who loved him for the hero he was.
In fact, they all did.
“More like he found us,” Tate said.
“You have to admit, if what he said about Reba was true, it gives motive to whoever was shooting at me,” Wyatt said. “I mean, if it was Gustov, why would he want me dead?”
York leaned up from the window. “To silence you?”
“The world wants to know what it was you were going to say about Jackson,” RJ said quietly.
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