“But he’s married now, doofus,” Brandon said, heading for the stairs.
“So?” Brady demanded.
“So, they’re probably…you know.” Brandon cast a knowing but embarrassed glance in Alexis’s direction and waved a hand to replace the words he couldn’t quite say.
“What?” Brady insisted.
Alexis opened her mouth to suggest a diplomatic explanation when Brady’s eyes suddenly widened and his expression made it clear that he understood. He looked horrified for a moment, then shoved Brandon aside and ran up the stairs.
Brandon heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “He’s still kind of young,” he said, and followed him, Ferdie trailing behind.
Alexis was stunned by that reaction. She knew that children Brady’s age discussed sex among themselves, but often hated the suggestion that their parents or guardians practiced it.
But she was fairly sure that hadn’t been disgust on Brady’s face, but fear. She didn’t understand what that meant. Judging by his behavior with Athena, he seemed to adore her.
“Let me know,” she called after Brandon, “before you turn the lights out.”
When Brandon called shortly after nine, Brady’s room was already dark. Alexis tucked Brandon in, then patted the dog lying on a blanket across the boy’s feet.
“French toast for breakfast?” Alexis asked before flipping off the light.
“Just cereal, please,” he said, snuggling into his pillow. “We’ve got Graham O’s.”
“And you don’t trust my cooking?”
He laughed. “Nope. Good night.”
“Good night, Brandon.”
She went across the hall to Brady’s room, braved the quiet darkness and looked down on him. She suspected he simply pretended to be asleep, but she tucked his blankets in anyway, then went to the door.
“I’d like French toast,” a voice said in the darkness.
Relieved to have some response from him, though still worried about his unusual behavior, Alexis replied briefly, “You got it. Should I get you up a little early so you’ll have more time?”
“More time?”
“To spread butter and drizzle syrup. You have to cover all the corners, you know, or it isn’t as good.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s true.”
“Brady?” she blurted, moving surreptitiously back toward the bed. “Are you worried about something?”
Silence.
“Because if you are,” she went on intrepidly, “you can tell me and I’ll do what I can to help. I know I’m not as good as having David and Athena here, but I’m sort of like your aunt now. So you can tell me if you’re worried. Or afraid.”
There was silence for another moment, then he said finally, “No. Nothing.”
“Okay.” Dispiritedly she reversed directions. “Two pieces or three?”
“Three.”
“Good night, Brady.”
“Night,” he replied.
All right, she told herself as she walked down the stairs to look through the kitchen and make sure they did indeed have syrup. She hadn’t exactly conquered Everest, but she’d given Brady something to look forward to in the morning. And that might help the curious fear he seemed to be dealing with.
She was relieved beyond words to find a bottle of syrup on a shelf in the refrigerator door.
Chapter Three
Trevyn had the nightmare again. Something told him Farah would try to come along on the raid on the campsite despite his insistence that she shouldn’t. The feeling had swelled inside him until fear began to permeate the calm, deadly edge that was so important to his work.
He’d expected to find her at the head of the trail that led to the campsite, but she wasn’t there. He wanted to take that as a good sign, but he couldn’t. His brain and his body refused to relax.
He discovered only moments later that she’d gone ahead of them in some misguided plan to clear the way for them, and that her traitorous brother had warned the camp.
He heard the gunfire, heard her scream.
Then he heard himself scream.
There was gunfire from three directions as he ran toward her. She was dead. He knew that before he reached her. And as he knelt there, staring at her stillness, he felt that he was dead, too.
But he and Bram and Dave were pinned down by loud, continuous bursts of gunfire, and he had an overpowering need to stop it, to stop all sound so that he could think.
Dave took hold of his arm and was pulling him backward.
He resisted. He couldn’t leave Farah. Maybe he’d been wrong. He wasn’t a doctor, after all. Maybe she was still alive.
He struggled against Dave, who finally helped him lift her body onto his shoulder, then knelt with Bram to cover his escape.
Trevyn awoke in a cold sweat, panic and grief at the very edge of his consciousness, the darkness he lived with all the time threatening to suffocate him.
Then he noticed the familiar beige wallpaper with little flecks of brown in it, and the chair in the corner over which he’d thrown his shirt and jeans. No camouflage, no flack jacket. He was back in Chicago.
No, he reminded himself, spotting the photo he’d taken of a lone freighter in the middle of the vast ocean just beyond the edge of Cliffside’s property. He was in Dancer’s Beach. He was starting over. He was opening a portrait studio.
He’d thought he’d seen the end of the nightmares, the occasional confusion about the past, but apparently he had more work to do on that. That was fine. Mostly, he had it together.
Everything began to settle down inside him. Until he remembered that he was going to be a father. Then he sat up, feeling excitement and trepidation all at once. How could a man in darkness raise a baby?
He liked babies, he told himself. He’d photographed a lot of them in his time at the Tribune—in good situations and in bad—and he’d been touched every time by both their fragility and their miraculous endurance.
He prayed that Gusty had endurance. He knew so little about her, except that on the night of the costume party, she’d walked into his arms like a beautiful bundle of everything he’d needed at that moment.
He had to take care of her.
He had to be with her when their baby was born, whatever bad memories he had. They were his responsibility.
But at the rate the search for her was going, their baby would be a toddler before he saw her again. For a man accustomed to taking action, having to wait was frustrating, exasperating, and downright infuriating.
Still, those were emotions he’d grown familiar with in his journey to reclaim his life since Afghanistan. He knew that the only way to fight it was to take action in whatever avenue was open to him.
He climbed out of bed and jumped into the shower. He’d rented his studio before he’d left for Canada, but there’d been little time to work on it. It had been cleaned but needed paint, furniture, signs, and he had to move in his equipment.
He wondered idly as he dressed if he should ask Alexis if there was anything she needed. She’d insisted yesterday morning that she didn’t think she’d ever need help from him—then she’d come over, pride in hand, when she’d found