Lone Star Survivor. Colleen Thompson

home from her invasion—to the death, if necessary.

      With no other choice, she crawled out of her hiding place and brushed at, swatted and stamped out every fire ant she could get to before she was hit with more venom. Shuddering with revulsion, she took a deep breath and assured herself that the stinging devils were gone and she would be fine, save for the itchy welts that would erupt.

      As she pulled her boots back on, she nervously looked around, her stomach spasming with the fear that someone might have seen her wild “ant dance” or heard her muffled yips. But she spotted no one and heard nothing, no sign of the person who’d fired on them or Ian, either.

      She tried to remember how long she’d waited, still and hidden, before the stings had become too much for her to bear. Five minutes? Ten? She couldn’t be certain, especially not with her heart thumping so wildly she wanted to crawl out of her skin.

      She relocated to another patch of shade, where she crouched and fought to calm herself for the next few minutes. But no matter how many times she assured herself that an experienced soldier like Ian, who had survived so much, knew what he was doing, phantom worries stung every exposed inch of her heart.

      Before he’d left, he’d seemed so sure of himself, so tough and so cocky, the way he’d smiled and ducked his head to surprise her with a stolen kiss. Her stomach fluttered with the memory, with the knowledge that she’d have to talk to him about it later. But other thoughts troubled her more as she recalled those moments when his blue eyes had drifted, his expression troubled as something she’d said left him grappling with memories. Memories his conscious mind remained too shell-shocked to face.

      She’d seen flashbacks before, had read case reports of terrible things happening—accidents, assaults and even murders—in the wake of something as innocuous as a backfiring car, a slamming door or a loud scene during a movie. In a situation as reminiscent of wartime as this one, would Ian’s struggle with the buried ghosts of his past endanger him in the present?

      As more time passed, she fought to hold back the rising tide of panic, telling herself it was a good sign that she’d heard no more shots. Reminding herself of how present and centered Ian had been when he had promised to return.

      But eventually, her worry overwhelmed her, and there was nothing to be done except follow in the direction he had taken. As she walked, she prayed she would encounter Ian rather than the shooter.

      She prayed even harder that when she did, he would still be the man she knew.