Saving Grace (Rosewood Ranch #3)

Prologue

LOUISA

T he flat stone roof beneath my bare feet is hot. Sweat trickles down my spine, sending the worst kind of shiver after it. The air is spice, rancid, and barreling down my throat with each breath.

I’ve been here before.

A voyeur to this recurring nightmare, featuring my son.

This time—it’s different.

Yelling in the streets drifts to the rooftop I’m standing on. Words I don’t understand; the tone and sentiment I do.

Military vehicles roll into the street. Smoke follows. Like it always does. A gust wraps my threadbare cotton nightgown around, tangling it between my legs. I’m trapped.

Forced to witness this every night.

I know what happens next. The gibberish on the street gives way to English. The sound of his voice closes in. Any minute now, I will turn back to see him push through the door to the roof with weapons drawn. Every inch of him covered in camo. But those eyes are the deep blue of my husband’s. That face, my own. That smile, not that it is used over here often, hidden; I know it will bloom like Harry’s when he is happy.

My throat closes over, a visceral reaction to seeing my child in uniform, and I can’t take my eyes off him. All business, he makes his way to the short wall at the edge of the building, his spotter close behind him.

The radio on his shoulder squawks, and he snaps a reply, head swiveling.

He’s alert. Good.

His voice an altered, more velvet version of his Pa. Burning prickles behind my eyes. Wetness tracks across my temple and into my hair. This is the part of a mother’s love that burns.

The brakes on the vehicles below whine and they roll to a stop. Mackinlay drops his gear and starts unbagging a rifle. I know what he’s about to do. I know he must do it.

Still, heat rushes my chest, and bile crawls upward.

His spotter sets up his equipment, somewhat covered by the undulating half walls with gaps every three feet. His tripod supports a device akin to a video camera. Both boys have their faces painted. They work in silence, communicating only by looks and gestures.

Settling on his stomach, Mack tucks the rifle into his side, eyeing down the naked barrel. He plucks a smaller, long pack from his gear bag. One-handed, he pulls the scope from its nestled spot and slides it into the guard on top of the rifle.

“Gun up.”

“Spotter up,” the young man says behind him. I suppress the urge to look at him, not willing to let my gaze wander from my own flesh and blood.

“Hold.” A harsh voice scratches back across the radio.

A soft click at the dial as his hand brushes over it, and he shuffles closer, spreading his legs wide, whispering something that sounds like a small prayer.

I clutch my hands over my chest. Closing my eyes, I say a prayer of my own to make sure my child makes it home, wherever that is for these boys this time, tonight. Knowing full well that whoever is at the end of my son’s crosshairs won’t.

That familiar burn flares in my core. That part of being a parent that smarts.

Selfishly, I ignore it, mesmerized by his hands that adjust the dial with soft clicks.

Gunshots ring out below.

Harsh voices echo over the radio at his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Not moving in the slightest.

“Breach!”

More gunshots.

Screaming starts.

Women and children hurry inside. Our men file into buildings on the opposite side of the street. A tall reddish stone three-story faces Mack’s twelve o’clock. He will find his mark. He does, every time this dream unfolds. Like a play known by heart.

Only seconds whip past before he tenses by the rifle.

“Now, gunny!” the radio squeals.

“Contact.”

The radio whines, beeps.

He slides his finger over the trigger.

“Range two hundred,” the young man at the tripod says.

Mack is still, barely breathing. “Two hundred.”

“Zero-point-three right.”

Adjusting his rifle almost imperceptibly, my son’s words are fast. “Zero-point-three right.”

“Spotter up.”

His shoulders rise and still. A long breath in. “Shooter ready.”

I hold my own breath, knuckles white over the opening of my nightgown.

“Send it.” The young man on the tripod goes rigid with the words.

Shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm, Mack whispers two words. I can’t make them out. His body frozen, he holds his breath. His trigger finger moves back with a precise movement.

Crack.

The window shatters on the top floor of the building opposite. Glass falls, tinkling like rain onto the sidewalk below.

“Impact! Move out ASAP.”

Static on the radio washes away the next command.

The boys pack their gear. A deep drone whooshes in from the other side of the building.

This isn’t right. The whoosh never comes. This isn’t what is supposed to happen.

“Fuck! Now, Rawlins!” the spotter yells, swiping up his gear in a bundle.

“Calm down, Daisy, it’s probably backup comin’.”

The young man pauses, eyes darting as if that will produce the source of the rotor wash. Mack swings his head up as a militant helicopter buzzes overhead. My son’s face turns from business to something else entirely.

His spotter runs to the rooftop door and disappears through it. A militant leans out of the window of the helicopter, bullets strapped to his cloth-clad chest. His head wrapped in bright colored fabric, he yells down. Aiming the tip of his weapon downward, he screams something like a madman. The aircraft jerks to one side.

Mack lets off a shot at the bird with the pistol from his hip and, leaving his rifle, makes for the door.

The weapon suspended in the air fires. A rocket-type round dives for the rooftop.

“Run, Mackinlay!” I claw at my throat. “Run, my boy!”

Rounds spark from somewhere close, charging for the helicopter. They intercept before it can meet its mark. The explosion swallows the chopper. It plummets, rotors spinning, crashing into the building’s top.

The old structure cracks under the weight. Stone bursting.

Tears spill, tracking into my hair as they did before.

I can’t breathe.

A harsh grip clamps down over my arms. I thrash in their hold, desperate to get to my second youngest.

The roof implodes. Then caves in.

I watch, scant air burning my hollow lungs, as Mackinlay is tossed from the building like a rag doll. Sickening stone slams into the sidewalk below, and the air rumbles.

The grip on my arms pulls.

Pulls hard.

Warmth folds in around me.

I wake with a start.

Sobs choke from my taut face, my fingers curled to claws. “Mackinlay!”

The familiar scent of my Harry surrounds me. He presses me into his chest, hands rubbing my hair, running down my back. “It’s okay. It’s only a dream, darlin’.”

The heartbreak in his voice sends fire into my chest. I shake my head.

No.

I push out of his hold and find his gaze. Within a breath, his eyes reflect mine. Terror mixed with devastation. “Sweet Jesus, Lou.”

“It wasn’t just a nightmare this time.” I push off the bed and steady myself on the side of the mattress. Forcing air into my lungs, I wrap my dressing gown around my body and pad into the hall. In the kitchen, I pull the kettle onto the stovetop. My hand trembles around the handle. A large hand slides over mine as I’m folded in his embrace, his chest to my back. His heart races against my spine, his stubble tangling with my bed hair.

“Let me, Louie.”

I tamp down a sob and turn in his hold. Meeting his gaze, a torrent of tears cascade down my heated cheeks. “What if he doesn’t come home, Harry?”

“Hey, we will find out if he’s okay in the morning.”

I sob into his chest. His stubble digs into my hair above my ear, his breath moving in my hair. “Hold hope, darlin’.”

The same god-awful dream every night he is deployed. Without fail. My nerves are shot. My heart so weary.

I can’t.

I can’t do this anymore . . .

Harry holds me at arm’s length. “How about I make the tea, and you find a spot on the sofa.”

I nod and lean back a little. Hand resting on his weathered face, I force a smile. Where the hell would I be without this man?

I sink onto the sofa and tuck my feet beneath me. Staring into the unlit fire, I let my mind wander back to the days when the boys were little. Mack and Reed, peas in a pod, always up to something. Up a tree. Hunting for no good. If anything happens to Mack, Reed will never be the same.

Harry settles in beside me, handing me a cup of tea.

It’s hot and I embrace the slight burn, a reminder that I’m awake. That the horrific scene that played through my head was just a dream . I drain the cup and strong arms pull me into his side. A hand rubs my hair, a kiss dots to the crown of my head.

Exhausted, I relax into his warmth, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment.

*****

Ringing jerks me from Harry’s side. It pierces the quiet.

The phone.

“Sweet Jesus, who rings at this hour?” he grumbles, pushing to his feet and heading toward the office. I follow on tender steps.

Ring. Ring.

He clears his throat.

Ring.

The clack of the plastic handset rustling from the phone base sounds so loud.

“Harry Rawlins speakin’.”

The silence of the early morning crashes in. The faint trill of the sun-woke birds filters through the windows.

I press my hands over my mouth, not daring to breathe. Somehow, I make it halfway down the hall and lean on the wall.

“Hold on,” Harry says, knowing I’m by the door. He hits a button on the phone. Static and breathing pour from the receiver. I listen, eyes closed and arms hugging my body tight.

“Mr. Rawlins, this is CNO Sergeant Miller. I’m ringing in regard to your son Mackinlay. Sir, I’m sorry to inform you...”