“Isn’t anyone hearing this?” Candace said. “Marco, you are not going to search out Jay Rico. Let us investigate and do our jobs. It won’t accomplish anything to go after him.”
“He’s the lead hostile. Need to go serve him notice.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, eyes flashing. “I’m not going to have you getting killed.”
The fire in her tone made his heart thud harder. She didn’t get it. He would risk anything, take on anyone, to keep her and Tracy from harm. These people—these women around his table and the child sleeping in the next room—gave him a purpose. They were his life and nothing mattered more to him than they did.
“Not going to get killed. Not by a two-bit gangster like Rico.”
All of a sudden, her expression changed, and he thought he saw her lips tremble. He wanted to pull her close. The urge was not in keeping with his resolve. It’s a mission, like any other. But Candace was not a woman like any other. Even though he loved all the Gallagher family, Candace occupied a different part of his soul, though he didn’t like to think about it. He drank a gulp of water to cover his confusion and stowed the feelings away in that deep-down place where he put all the other uncomfortable things in his life.
There was a soft knock at the door.
Marco opened it to a skinny man with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, an affable smile on his face. He bobbed his chin by way of a greeting.
“This is Lon,” Marco said. “He’s going to keep watch on JeanBeth’s place.” Marco quickly introduced the group, ignoring the surprised looks.
JeanBeth, the consummate military wife, rose without batting an eye and offered Lon a seat, which he politely declined, and a glass of water, which he also refused.
Candace was not as serene. She wasn’t a fan of surprises, Marco had come to learn, and this one would be hard for her to swallow. “It’s nice to meet you, Lon, but Marco, would you mind explaining?”
“Lon and I served together.”
Marco felt it was an adequate explanation. Candace did not, from the crimp in her full lips. Her mahogany eyes flashed in that way that made his stomach muscles tighten.
“So now you’ve gone ahead and arranged for soldiers to guard my mom’s house?”
“Lon’s on medical leave for a torn ligament. He gets bored. Needs something to do besides play video games.”
Lon smiled.
“You’ve brought in help.” Candace’s eyes narrowed. “Without bothering to consult us? Is there anything else we should know? Did you enlist any more of your buddies to guard my house, too?”
Marco tidied the already neat stack of papers in front of him. “Possibly.”
Candace groaned. “This is ridiculous, way out of proportion. I’m going to be careful and keep a close eye on Tracy. We’ll be extra cautious until the trial is over. We don’t need a platoon of people.”
“A platoon is sixteen. We’re closer to a squad,” he said, to clarify.
She groaned. “You’re not listening to me.”
“Yes, I am, but this is serious.”
“Overkill.”
“Your father would have done the same.”
She flinched and he wished he hadn’t said it. Bruce Gallagher’s death was still a raw and painful wound for all of them. But I can’t let anything happen to you, don’t you see?
She closed her mouth. “Fine. Do whatever you want. You will, anyway. I’m going to check on Tracy.”
It bothered him to upset her, and he didn’t want to bark orders as if he was her commanding officer, but he couldn’t give voice to that softer, disconcerting thought. Seeing you hurt would be unbearable.
He couldn’t take it, not after Gwen. She’d never in the four years they’d been married come close to staying clean, even after he’d wiped out his savings on rehab programs. Married when they were both just eighteen, she’d endured his navy boot camp days and the moving around, fighting battles he’d not fully comprehended until the addiction took hold. Then they’d fought together, but no amount of muscle, determination or grit could free her from the enemy of heroin. Or maybe he could have fought harder on his home turf instead of giving himself to the navy. He’d served his country, choosing to believe that he’d changed things, helped her, saved her. He’d been dead wrong.
There had been moments of pure joy, when he’d been sure they would make it, and deep down, part of him believed it right up until the moment she’d sent him a letter two months into his deployment, telling him she’d pawned her wedding ring and filed for divorce.
The thing that scared Marco the most was that he would have still tried to save their marriage, because despite the torture, he loved her and he always would. Even after the papers were signed, after her belongings were stripped out of the base housing they shared, even as a twenty-three-year-old divorcee whose ex-wife had cleaned out their bank account—even then, the love inside him was greater than the hurt. The divorce was a defeat, the worst he’d ever experienced, a public exposure of his failure. But still, he’d had the navy to bury himself in, and what had Gwen had? When he’d learned of her recent death from an overdose, he’d been anguished to his core, a feeling that still stabbed him in the gut when he let it.
He blinked, realizing he’d missed the last few comments.
Pay attention, Marco. What’s the matter with you?
With the briefing over, JeanBeth returned to the house with Lon, reminding them she would expect the entire group for lunch. They scattered to their respective corners, fingers tapping on keyboards and dialing phones. Determined to keep his mind on the critical business at hand, Marco marched off toward his own cubicle, itching to shut down Jay Rico before he could cause any more grief.
Candace watched Marco settle himself in the office chair behind his cubby walls and poke the computer to life, staring at the screen. He detested computers, and it was only after painful hours of her tutelage that he had become proficient on the new office email and messaging system. Still, he faced the screen as if it was a wily adversary bent on destroying him. As she considered his strong profile, muscled body dwarfing the small cubicle, she wanted to stay angry at him, to resent his cavalier treatment of her life, his tendency to order instead of ask. She wanted to keep her ire burning, but she found as she looked at him that she couldn’t.
“Marco,” she said, after a deep breath. “I know you want to protect me and Tracy, and I appreciate that, but don’t you think you’re taking this to an extreme? Recruiting your navy buddies?”
He didn’t turn around, quickly replacing a photo he’d been looking at in its usual place. After a moment he said, “No.”
She sighed. “But it’s crazy.”
“Not crazy to protect people you care about.”
Something in the words spoke of profound regret, drawing her closer. She saw the little black-and-white photo on his desk that he’d just replaced. The picture showed a proudly smiling young sailor, his arms around a willowy blonde woman who would later ruin her life and his with drugs. Gwen.
“Marco, what happened to Gwen wasn’t because you didn’t protect her.”
He stiffened, eyes still locked on the screen, and she knew she’d struck at a wound by mentioning Gwen’s name.
“Yes, it is. I wasn’t there enough,” he said after a moment.
The way he’d loved the broken Gwen, the way