Fragile

by Shiloh Walker

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  PRAISE FOR

  HUNTER’S SALVATION

  “One of the best tales in a series that always achieves high marks . . . An excellent thriller.” —Midwest Book Review

  HUNTERS: HEART AND SOUL

  “Some of the best erotic romantic fantasies on the market. Walker’s world is vibrantly alive with this pair.” —The Best Reviews

  HUNTING THE HUNTER

  “Action, sex, savvy writing, and characters with larger-than-life personalities that you will not soon forget are where Ms. Walker’s talents lie, and she delivered all that and more . . . This is a flawless five-rose paranormal novel and one that every lover of things that go bump in the night will be howling about after they read it . . . Do not walk! Run to get your copy today!” —A Romance Review

  “An exhilarating romantic fantasy filled with suspense and . . . star-crossed love . . . Action-packed.” —Midwest Book Review

  “Fast-paced and very readable . . . Titillating.” —The Romance Reader

  “Action-packed, with intriguing characters and a very erotic punch, Hunting the Hunter had me from page one. Thoroughly enjoyable with a great hero and a story line you can sink your teeth into, this book is a winner. A very good read!” —Fresh Fiction

  “Another promising voice is joining the paranormal genre by bringing her own take on the ever-evolving vampire myth. Walker has set up the bones of an interesting world and populated it with some intriguing characters. Hopefully, there will be a sequel that ties together more threads and divulges more details.” —Romantic Times

  Books by Shiloh Walker

  HUNTING THE HUNTER

  HUNTERS: HEART AND SOUL

  HUNTER’S SALVATION

  THROUGH THE VEIL

  THE MISSING

  FRAGILE

  Anthologies

  HOT SPELL

  (with Emma Holly, Lora Leigh, and Meljean Brook)

  PRIVATE PLACES

  (with Robin Schone, Claudia Dain, and Allyson James)

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2009 by Shiloh Walker, Inc.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / February 2009

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Walker, Shiloh.

  Fragile / Shiloh Walker.—Berkley Sensation trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-68700-6

  1. Veterans—Fiction. 2. Social workers—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3623.A35958F73 2009

  813’.6—dc22

  2008045434

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ONE

  MAD. That was the first thing that Luke Rafferty thought as he gazed at the face across from him.

  Mad. And scared.

  It was seriously weird looking at that face, seeing eyes that looked just like his, hair the same color. A mirror, sort of. An angry, scared mirror.

  Dad had told him his brother’s name was Quinn, had told him that their mom had taken Quinn from the hospital when they’d been babies. For eleven years, Luke hadn’t known he had a brother. His dad never told him.

  Then, a few days ago, while Luke had been helping Dad and a couple of the hands with a new horse they’d gotten, Janie, their housekeeper, had come rushing outside, her eyes wide, worried. She’d whispered something to Dad that Luke hadn’t heard. Dad had looked at him for just a second. Something had shone in his eyes . . . something like hope.

  Then dismay.

  Without saying anything, Patrick had gone in the house with orders for Luke to keep helping with the horse.

  An hour later, Patrick had sought Luke out and told him a story he could hardly believe. That he had a twin—a twin brother that their mother had taken from the hospital when they were only two days old. She’d abandoned Luke, although Dad hadn’t used that word. But that’s what she had done.

  Left one brother, taken the other.

  And now she was dead. Luke had often wondered about his mom, but whenever he’d asked about her, his father would just give him a sad smile and say, “Your mama wasn’t a happy woman, Luke.”

  “Did she love me?” Luke had asked that, so often. When his father could evade him, he had. But other times, he’d simply sigh and either pick Luke up when he’d been small, or just wrap an arm around his shoulders as he’d gotten bigger. Then, in that sad, soft voice, he would say, “Luke, this is hard for you to understand. But not everybody is capable of love. Some people just don’t have it in them.”

  Yeah. That had hurt. But his dad loved him. Eventually he’d stopped asking . . . because she’d stopped mattering so much to him. On the rare times he did think about her, it was to wonder what she was like, where she was . . . if she was any happier. If he’d ever meet her.

  Now he’d never know anything about her, never would, because she was dead . . . dead, and the brother Luke hadn’t known about was coming to live with them.

  Twins. This was all so warped, having a brother he never knew existed.

  But at the same time—and Luke wouldn’t admit it to anybody, not even his dad—but at the same time, when his dad had told him about Quinn, some part of Luke had known.

  He inched a little farther into the room, eying Quinn with curiosity, nervous excitement, and confusion. It was all turning his stomach into a mess. Their father, Patrick Rafferty, st
ood close to Quinn, and there was a look on his face that made Luke’s belly feel all weird.

  Although he tried to hide it, Dad looked like he was feeling the same anger, the same fear as Quinn. And sad. Luke didn’t know if he’d ever seen Dad look that sad before.

  Luke frowned, and that was when Quinn saw him.

  Those gray eyes, so like Luke’s, narrowed, and his lip curled. “What the fuck are you looking at?” Quinn sneered.

  Luke’s eyes widened, and unconsciously, he glanced at his dad. Patrick sighed and reached up, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Something about the way he looked just then made Luke think this wasn’t anything that surprised Dad. Yeah, Luke was surprised. He wouldn’t ever say that around his dad. The few times he had said it, it had been at school, with friends. But in front of his dad?

  “Quinn, I’m getting tired of telling you that I don’t allow that sort of talk coming from a child of mine.”

  Luke’s surprise faded away into something else as Quinn flinched, almost like the man had raised his voice—or a fist. Without knowing how he knew, Luke realized that was exactly what Quinn expected. For Dad to hit him. Followed by that realization was a bizarre sense of resignation, and Luke almost heard the words ripple through his mind: So what else is new? Trying to think beyond all the stuff coming at him, Luke focused on Quinn as the boy turned and faced their father with a sneer. “Yeah, and I don’t give a fuck.” Then he raised his chin.

  Luke blinked, startled. It was like Quinn was daring their dad to do something.

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “Boy, you are going to learn some respect.”

  Quinn laughed. It was an ugly, almost painful laugh, and Luke flinched at the sound of it. “How you going to make me do that, old man? Beat it into me?” Quinn shrugged as though he didn’t give a damn what the answer was. “Won’t be the first time.”

  The anger came on Luke before he understood what Quinn was saying. Pissed off, so damn pissed off that he couldn’t think for it. “Beat it into me . . . won’t be the first time.”

  All of a sudden, that anger in Dad’s voice, in his eyes, made sense. The fear that Luke somehow knew was inside his twin made sense.

  Out of the blue, Luke remembered his dad saying, “Your mama wasn’t a happy woman, Luke.” Not happy. She’d hit Quinn, and somehow, Luke knew it wasn’t just a smack on the butt.

  Patrick stood across from Quinn, a helpless look on his face. He closed his eyes, and Luke could all but hear his voice as Dad silently counted to ten. Before he reached it, though, Luke took a step forward, drawing Quinn’s attention to him. “Dad doesn’t hit people.”

  Quinn’s lip curled up in that challenging, ugly sneer. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

  Luke stiffened, his face flushing a hot red. Dad spun away, swearing under his breath, and then his eyes cut to Luke. “Luke, why don’t you go out to the stables, see if you can help the boys for a while?”

  Quinn laughed. “Yeah, you don’t want him to see you hit me.”

  “Luke, get out to the stables. Now.”

  “My dad doesn’t hit,” Luke snapped. He shoved his hands into his pockets and glared at his brother. Planting his feet where he was, he did something he rarely did: disobeyed a direct order from his father and stood there, facing his brother and trying to think past the disgust and the disbelief rocking through him.

  “Shit.” Quinn shoved a hand through his hair, and when he did, Luke saw something on his skinny arm.

  A bruise. Big, yellowed, fading. It wrapped all the way around his arm, like he’d been grabbed.

  Seeing where Luke was looking, Quinn flushed red, but instead of looking away, he got that challenging look on his face again. In an unconscious mirror of his brother, he shoved his hands in his pockets and planted his legs wide apart. Lifting his chin, he smirked at Luke and said, “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “What’s yours?” Luke replied. From the corner of his eye, he could see his dad, and he was half expecting a hand to close around his neck as his dad forcibly walked him out of the room.

  But Patrick Rafferty was silent.

  And when Quinn abruptly took off, stalking out of the room, Dad gave Luke a curious look. Kind of wondering, thinking. Patrick was the thinking type. He talked slow, he was slow to anger, and he didn’t bother wasting breath on words that weren’t needed. The look on his face now was the same one he’d give a horse when he was deciding whether to buy: measuring, weighing, debating.

  Finally, a faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ve been trying to get through to him for a while now and not having much luck. Maybe you should go talk to him.”

  In that moment, Luke felt strangely adult. Almost old. Without saying a word, he nodded, and then he left the room. He didn’t even have to look for Quinn. Somehow, his feet led him right to his brother, out in the backyard, behind the old utility shed, sitting with his back braced against it as he scratched at an ugly scab on one elbow.

  “She hit you, didn’t she?” Luke said, settling on the ground across from his brother.

  Quinn tensed, and for a minute, Luke thought he was going to take off again. But instead, he just shrugged and muttered, “What the hell. Does it matter?”

  “Because it ain’t right.”

  “You really think I’m gonna believe that your old man never hit you?”

  “He’s your old man, too, Quinn.” Then he shook his head. “I’m not going to lie and say he’s never spanked me. But the last time he did was a couple years ago when he caught me getting into the gun cabinet.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. For a minute, he actually looked like a kid, like some boy that Luke would run into at school, instead of some angry, pissed-off punk. “Gun cabinet?”

  Luke laughed. “Yeah, a gun cabinet. This is a ranch, not the city.”

  “What were you—?” Then he clamped his mouth shut, like he hadn’t even realized he was asking something.

  But Luke answered anyway. He shrugged and shifted around so that he had his legs drawn up in front of him. Resting his elbows on his knees, he answered, “I wasn’t really doing anything. I just . . . Dad had been showing me how to hold the shotgun, how to clean it and stuff, and I wanted to see if I could do it without his help.”

  “And when he caught you, he beat the shit of you,” Quinn finished, shaking his head like he wasn’t surprised.

  “No.” Luke waited until Quinn looked back at him. “He turned me over his knee and spanked my butt a few times. Sent me to my room. Came upstairs later and gave me one of his talking-tos.”

  Quinn blinked. Squirmed around. Luke got the impression that Quinn wanted to believe him, but couldn’t.

  Softly, Luke said, “Decent people don’t beat their kids, Quinn.”

  Again, that derisive, disbelieving smirk . . . but this time, Luke felt something else. Faint. Just barely able to make sense of it. But Quinn wanted to believe.

  Twenty Years Later

  “WHEN you shipping out?”

  “End of the week.” Luke glanced away from the window, meeting Jeb Gray’s gaze. Jeb was an ugly bastard. Rangers had to keep their hair short, but most of them just kept it buzzed. Jeb shaved his hair completely off. His bald head was swarthy and dark. Should he ever let his hair grow long enough, it would be black. He had dark skin, but it didn’t come from the sun. He’d probably been born looking like he’d spent months out in the desert.

  Jeb’s nose had been broken twice in the three years they’d been working together, and there was a scar bisecting the left half of his face. Starting just above the outer corner of the eyebrow, it slanted down toward his jaw. He’d barely missed being blinded in his left eye.

  Yeah, Jeb Gray was an ugly one, all right. But he was one of Luke’s best friends, and there were few men Luke trusted the same way he trusted Jeb. More than most, Jeb would probably understand some of the mess going on inside Luke’s head right then. Luke Rafferty had been in the army from the time he graduate
d high school, as had Jeb. They’d been in basic together, gone into the Rangers together, had sweated and bled together.

  It was all they knew.

  Well, maybe not all; Luke knew there was a world out there where people didn’t bleed, sweat, and die for their job. Where they had a life outside the job. And that mess was the part Jeb probably wouldn’t understand, because Jeb was the job. If it had been Jeb injured, he’d be fighting tooth and nail to get back in the unit.

  But Luke was actually ready to go, busted-up left leg and all. Looking down, he studied the leg in question. He could bear weight on it. Just barely. He could walk—with a cane. But the army was sending him to the best rehab hospital around, and Luke was going to leave the damned hospital with the ability to walk on his own two feet, with no help.

  Jeb gave a low whistle. “That soon, huh? You okay with it?”

  With a faint smile, Luke asked, “Do I have any choice?”

  A smile curled Jeb’s lips, and he replied, “Well, logically, yeah, you do. You don’t have to leave, you know. Why the hell you want to leave before you know . . .” Then his eyes dropped to Luke’s leg. Jeb had been there when Luke was injured; he knew how severe the damage was. “They said you wouldn’t walk, Luke. Now they say you can’t come back here. Prove ’em wrong.”

  “Prove ’em wrong.” If it was as simple as all that, if getting back into the unit was all that mattered to Luke, then he would do just that—or he’d die trying. Funny thing had happened on that last op in Afghanistan when those bullets had ripped through his leg: Luke had laid there on the ground, cold as ice, even though it was hot as Hades, and he’d realized he just might die without knowing anything more.