Jeff nodded, distracted. His brain was clearly elsewhere, worrying about the woman he'd yet to realize he had feelings for. "Just make sure you hold firm on the gun turret. No matter what extra funds we manage to scrape up—there's never going to be money in the budget for that."
Despite the seriousness of their conversation, Hank chuckled. "And you call me Colonel Cranky? You're no fun at all."
"YOU LIKE HER, DON'T you?"
Pete's amused voice shook Hank from his distracted thoughts. Unable to stop staring at Annie, he laid his fork down. When she smiled, she was damn near the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. "I like her a great deal," he admitted. "Her boys, too."
"She's a hard worker." Pete drained his coffee. "Some of them don't like to work," he explained, his eyes distant. "But, as long as she's been here, I've never seen her miss a shift."
"That's what I wanted to talk with you about." He studied the layout of the serving line. "After what happened Sunday—and last night," he added, "we're realizing that all the women who work here are exposed. There's nothing to stop someone from just . . . leaping that counter." His gaze encompassed the room. "Or the women doing clean-up duty. What's to stop a fight from breaking out in the middle of the dining room?"
"Hell—that happens all the time." Pete's gaze shifted to the line. "If you just enclosed the whole line, no one could get back there. Extend the counter to meet that wall." He pointed to the end of the line, near where Annie stood. "Glass it in—or some sort of unbreakable substitute material. You'd have to check the health code."
Surprised by his suggestion, Hank hesitated, before doing a rough calculation in his head. He'd need to make a few calls. "Have people gotten back there?"
Pete's expression suggested he might be a little slow. "Over the counter; around the end, looking for purses."
At a minimum, the women who worked there should feel safe. Hank stilled, swallowing around the worry that had begun to settle in. Annie was back there. He knew one woman shouldn't make a difference. But—it did. Her safety was imperative. "Basically, anything they can steal?"
Pete's massive shoulders shrugged. "When you're high . . . anything shiny will do. Somethin' you can sell."
He gave him a speculative look. Pete's comment sounded a little too much like . . . experience. He'd served with several guys who'd become addicted while in goat country. The stress of one too many tours in harsh, desert conditions . . . Worry over the family you left behind. Boredom. The endless wait for orders that could just as easily send you to your death as save someone-
"We were bullet sponges. A lot of my unit never made it back." Pete debated eating the last few bites of roast chicken before shoving his plate back. "Got our bells rung on a daily basis."
His matter-of-fact tone reminded him what their country asked of Marines. The most combat-intensive branch. Ground-based, with the greatest likelihood of being in the middle of a shit storm in any firefight. "I know, bud. We don't thank you guys enough."
The clouds seemed to clear from his eyes. "What do you need my help with?"
Hank slid his plate to the center of the table and opened his pad. "I want your advice on relocating a couple entry points." He showed him the quick sketches he'd made of the main hallway off the dining room.
"Hooyah, it's about time." Pete studied his drawing. "If you blocked off the dining room here-" He dragged his finger along the sketch. "And here—you'd still meet fire code for egress."
Hank's smile broadened. "How do you know about building code?"
A rare smile appeared. "I used to know . . . a ton of shit about stuff like this." Pete hesitated, his distant expression different from usual. One of memory instead of blankness. "In another life."
Despite his curiosity, Hank bit back his questions. After all that Shea had endured—he deserved his privacy. "What else you got?"
Pete pulled a pencil stub from behind his ear. "If there ain't a lot of stuff behind this wall-" He tapped a spot on the sketch.
"I can check the plans."
"You could cut an entrance for the ladies—maybe airlock it. Double alarm the doors and they'd be three feet from the stairwell that leads to their apartments."
"Instead of the gauntlet they have to walk now." Hell—it could be doable. But, at what cost? Hank sat back in his chair. "You've thought about this a lot."
"Well, yeah. I'm here every day."
"Can I get your advice on a personal matter?"
Pete's gaze lifted from the simple sketches he'd drawn on the legal pad to him. Then beyond him, to the line where Annie worked frantically, plating meals for the rapidly growing line. He nodded in her direction. "This about her?"
"Yeah—I need some information . . . that maybe you know how to get."
Pete glanced at his watch and scowled. "I need to get back outside."
Hank glanced around to the thickening lunch crowd. "Yeah, and they need these seats. I'll follow you." Snagging his pad, he followed Pete as he wove through the crowded dining hall.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, they were outside. Hank was patient during Pete's drill-sergeant interrogation of Lefty, the concrete guy. For the twenty-three minutes they'd been inside eating lunch, anyone would've thought Pete had been on vacation for a week, based on the sheer volume of questions he asked. But, Lefty answered them all with a smile. Somewhere in the last eight weeks, they'd apparently bonded.
When he was finally finished, Pete swiveled his attention back to him. "Okay—what do you want me to find out?"
"I heard about what happened last night—with Miss Ortega."
"Yeah, Jeff was out here askin' questions about it, too." His eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, always searching for anything out of the ordinary. "I need to stay sharp."
"You think he'll be back?"
Pete nodded. "Yeah—that one ain't gonna stop."
A chill swept over him. "How do you know?"
He lifted a hand to his face. "His eyes. It's personal with him. He's not an addict lookin' for a quick hit. For most of these abusers—it's personal." His gaze shifted back to him. "You said you needed my help. What are you lookin' for?"
"Information on a guy—like what kinda car he drives. Where he lives. What he looks like." His heart thudding, Hank realized he wanted it over. He wanted her safe—no matter the cost. No matter how long it would take. "I wanna know where he works. What he does in his spare time-" Aside from terrorizing Annie. His jaw clenched. "I'm happy to pay for it. You know anyone who can get that for me?"
Pete huffed out a laugh. "And here I was, thinkin' you were gonna challenge me. Come on, Hank. Give me something hard."
Relief coursed through him. "So, you can do it."
"All of it. Probably more." He stared down at him. "You got a name?"
"Phil-"
"Wait—Phil from last night?" Pete's question cut him off.
Hank froze. "What? What do you mean . . . Phil from last night?"
The giant shot him a strange look—one that made it suddenly difficult to breathe. A band constricted his chest. His brain sputtered, before memories began whistling like incoming rounds. Annie—always working late. Never wanting to leave. Her excuses for not wanting to take the boys out-
"Sweet Jesus." Annie working late—because he was there—because he stayed—to have dinner with them. She didn't want him to know. Sharon's words returned to haunt him. An ex-husband—after a woman who lives here. Lives. Here.
Pete's sigh was aggravated. "Annie's ex-husband?"
"How-" His voice hoarse, he blanked for a second, his brain unwilling to acknowledge the truth he'd—maybe subconsciously suspected? "H-how do you know about Annie's ex-husband?"
"Dude—It was Phil McKenna who went after Miss Ortega. He's figured out Annie lives here."
Chapter 11
Annie glanced up, marveling that she could almost sense when Henry was present. She'd never felt so connected to anyone before. The line of diners had slowed to a trickle as the lunch rush ended. She'd seen
him an hour earlier, eating with Big Pete, before they left together. Now, he was crossing the room—maybe to say hello before he went back to work. A sudden thought made her worry. Had Henry found out? About the incident the previous night?
"You're on borrowed time," she muttered. She had to tell him—the last truth. About her situation. About her living situation. Her hands suddenly fidgety, she swiped down the gleaming counter as he wove his way through the nearly empty dining hall. Tonight, she vowed. After dinner. If they could catch a moment away from the boys- Tonight, they'd be caulking around the first new window that had been installed in the daycare center. Miss Robin had complained about relocating all the kids the previous day—until she'd seen the beautiful, light-filled result this morning.
Fingers crossed under the counter, she waited for him to close the distance. "What are you doing here at this time of day?" Her smile died on her lips as he drew closer, his piercing gaze sending a tumble of warning down her spine. Oh, God—his expression. In a single moment, she saw everything. The vibe of anger. The rigid way he held himself . . . as though he were about to deliver bad news. He knew.
"Annie . . . we need to talk."
His voice was hoarse, sending a shiver of warning over her skin. But, the most painful thing to witness was the flicker of hurt in his eyes . . . because she'd failed to trust him enough. To share her miserable story. To respect him enough to risk losing him—when he finally realized how much baggage she truly carried.
"You . . . know." Instead, he'd learned her truth—likely during a discussion on building safety after Phil nearly injured Marisol and Pete the previous night. On the long walk to the kitchen, he'd likely reviewed all her lies. Half-truths. He'd remember her stalling—leading him on when she could have set him straight. When she should have set him free— to be with someone normal.
"I know."
"I should h-have told you-" Hand to her throat, she squeezed her eyes shut on the rush of scalding tears. Great job, McKenna. The woman who rarely cried was on the verge of losing it—before she even got the chance to explain. But, how was she supposed to handle the loss of the most incredible chance she'd ever been given? "Weeks ago."
Lifting her apron to her burning face, she wiped the tears spilling down her cheeks. Henry Freeman had been her winning lottery ticket. Because with him—she'd cautiously started feeling capable again. Of anything. A shiver tremored through her as she remembered the boys. They worshipped Hank. "I've ruined everything."
"Don't cry, sweet." Brilliant, blue eyes flashed with a trace of alarm, bringing a painful smile to her lips. In one respect, it appeared all men were the same. They all seemed to panic at the sight of tears. He motioned for her to leave the pile of silverware on the counter. "Let's take a walk."
Her shoulders sagged as she rounded the stainless steel counter. Only hours earlier, she'd been relieved—that she wouldn't have to leave New Beginnings. Her family would remain intact. They'd be safe as they contemplated how to deal with Phil.
But now—she wondered how she'd bear it. Seeing Henry every day. He was rigid by her side, his body radiating anger. Wariness. Of her. How could she look into the kindest eyes she'd ever known—and acknowledge she'd lost him?
He hesitated beside her. "Is there a place where we can talk privately?"
Unwilling to see the finality in his eyes, she kept her head down. "Not really."
"What about-" He hesitated. "Could we talk in your . . . room?"
A shudder tremored through her. At least when he left her, she'd be able to cry in privacy. "It's not usually allowed . . . but, under the circumstances-" Her words choked in her throat. "C'mon. I'll show you."
Crossing the hall, Henry remained quiet beside her. Until she used her key to open the locked door that led to the stairs. "This should be card-entry," he muttered.
She glanced over her shoulder. "We're issued these keys." When he hesitated, staring at the wall near the door, she waited, curious. What was he thinking now?
Forgetting the pain she would soon be feeling, she watched him walk off the steps to the exterior wall. Smiled when he took a moment to scribble several notes on his pad. Dear, practical Henry. Even now, after receiving the shocking confirmation that she'd lied to him- After learning he'd come dangerously close to dating a nightmare . . . She sighed. He was still able to multi-task. Compartmentalize. She could probably stand to take a few lessons from him.
"Sorry." The flash of his devastating smile tortured her, providing a measure of hope she had no right to wish for. "I need to price a few improvements we've been discussing. That saves me a little time."
They walked side by side up the two flights of stairs, neither speaking. Each step Annie took seemed to nudge her closer to losing him. Twenty steps. Eighteen. For a brief ten weeks, she'd found a measure of stability. She'd found friends. She'd found- She glanced to the handsome man at her side. She'd found love. A man—she could love. Hell, maybe already did love.
"I'm . . . on the second floor." Her voice, laden with regret, echoed softly on the cinder block walls. Twelve steps.
"How many families?"
"There are—ten of us . . . on each floor."
He stopped on the landing. "All of you . . . are families?"
She managed to meet his gaze, unashamed of her situation. Only sorry she had lied about it. "There are other shelters in the area for women who are alone. This is one of the few that doesn't separate families."
He released a ragged breath. "Jeez, Annie—I-"
His voice trailed off with regret. How would Hank finish that sentence? I pity you? I can't handle your baggage? She steeled herself not to guess. Not to waste time on what-might-have-been. She had plenty of real problems to dwell on.
They started up again. Six steps. Three. The loss of a wonderful, kind man was, by necessity, at the bottom of her list.
They reached the second floor. Always a gentleman, Henry held the heavy, fire-rated door for her. She counted the doors along her quiet hallway, a rare stillness in mid-afternoon. A few women were likely napping. Catching rest as they were able. Because a few hours later, the noise level would increase exponentially. Kids home from school. Babies fussing before dinner. The evening congestion in the overcrowded communal bathrooms. Baths to be given.
"Here we are." She glanced up at him, the slide of her key breaking the silence, before nudging open the door.
HIS HEART ROARING LIKE a locomotive hurtling down the track, Hank wasn't sure what to expect. Wasn't certain what to say. What he could do—to lift the veil of sadness from her eyes. To lessen her sense of failure—for he knew her well enough by now to understand she would blame herself. For everything.
She took three steps into the narrow room, the rigid set of her shoulders telling him everything. "This is-" She released a shuddering breath, still not facing him. "Our h-home . . . for now."
Until Phil made her run again. "Annie, love." He cleared his throat around the painful knot that had taken residence. Through peripheral vision, he took in the tiny room, though his gaze remained on her. Helpless to look away from the proud woman standing before him. Twin beds, about six feet apart from each other. A superhero nightlight glowed reassuringly over one bed. The one with pillows at both ends. The boys had to share. Hank tried to imagine them there each night. "Can you look at me, sweet?"
"I should h-have told you last night." She sniffed back tears, her back still to him. "But—there was so much else-"
Taking another few steps, she sank into the lone chair in the room. A metal folding chair. Under a small window, high up near the ceiling. A window air conditioner—blocking light, but likely offering relief from the sweltering, summer heat that would soon arrive. She had so little. Yet, it was neat. Clean. Beds made. Three storage containers stacked in the corner. Annie was making do with nothing. She was raising her boys—striving for normalcy in a situation so far outside the realm of normal- Humbled by her surroundings, Hank swallowed around the ache of regret.
&
nbsp; Annie sat in the shadows, shoulders hunched, still unable to look at him. Afraid she might be lost to him, he closed the distance between them. "Honey, talk to me," he urged, praying she would say something. "Tell me the rest of your story."
Blinking back tears, her expression was devastated. As though she'd given up. As though him knowing the truth was something she couldn't bear. "This is it." Finally raising her gaze to his, he was relieved to read anger there. Defiance. "I've been running since the divorce. Since before the divorce."
An icy fury sliced through his initial shock. "Two years? He's done this to you for two years?"
"This is our sixth shelter," she confessed in a small, defeated voice. Annie swiped at her eyes. "It's the last shelter," she admitted, her voice breaking. "There's nowhere else we can go that has space for a f-family."
He couldn't handle the anguished sound of her defeat. Of her control breaking. The woman he cared about- Hell—was half in love with. Closing the gap, he tugged her to her feet. "Baby, come here. Let me hold you."
Relieved when she let him pull her into his arms, he held her, stroking her back when she buried her face in his shirt. "I don't know what to say to make this better," he admitted, grateful that she seemed to be returning from the sad, distant place she'd retreated to. "But—I want to. I want to help you, Annie. You have to tell me how I can fix this."
Her smothered laughter eased the painful band around his chest. "Henry, I'm not one of your buildings." When she raised her gaze to his, relief poured through him. Some of the sparkle had returned to her beautiful eyes. "We can't just—move a wall. Or install a new door." Her mouth drifted to his throat. "This is a crazy, unstable man—who h-hates me. Who hates his kids. Who doesn't want to pay for them."
"What do you mean?" When she rested her head against his chest, his heart flopped against his ribs. God—she belonged there.
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