The SEAL’s Duchess (Alaskan Guardians #2)

Chapter 1

Blood welled between Ryder Meyer's fingers as the small boy whimpered. He adjusted the pressure cuff, gauze already soaked through.

The Jayhawk’s rotors thundered overhead, beating like war drums. Salt air, aviation fuel, and blood—the familiar scent of another rescue while the cabin vibrated under his knees.

“How’s he look back there?” His brother Wyatt’s voice crackled through the headset, calm despite the crosswinds buffeting the helicopter.

Ryder pressed his stethoscope against the child’s chest, listening past the engine noise.

“Vitals are stable, but we need to get him to the hospital soon. Deep laceration on the forearm, probably needs surgery.” The boy’s arm had been caught in the boat’s anchor line when a rogue wave hit, dragging him across the deck and into the sharp edge of a cleat.

“Is Andrew going to be okay?” Harry Taylor’s voice shook from his seat across the cabin, still dripping seawater from his own rescue, straining against his harness to get closer to his son.

He’d jumped into thirty-eight-degree water when his son went overboard, hauling him back onto their charter fishing boat with strength fueled by pure terror.

“He’s going to be fine,” Ryder reassured. But inside, his chest tightened.

Andrew looked four years old, maybe five. Only a year or two older than his daughter Ellie. His brown eyes were wide with fear and pain medication. “It hurts.”

For a split second, Ryder saw Ellie's face instead—her wide blue eyes, her small hand reaching for him in the dark. His throat closed. What if this were her? What if she were the one bleeding and terrified while he was out on a call, unable to reach her?

He slammed the thought shut before it could take root, jaw locking.

Not now. Not ever.

“You’re the bravest kid I’ve ever met.” Ryder’s voice softened as he adjusted the pressure bandage with careful hands.

The boy's eyes fixed on him.

“Did you know you’re riding in the same helicopter that rescues superheroes?”

Andrew’s eyes flickered with interest despite his pain. His skin was pale against the orange rescue blanket swaddling him. “Really?”

“Really. And you know what? You’re being so brave that I think you qualify as a superhero yourself.” Ryder caught the father’s grateful look and continued his assessment. The boy’s breathing remained regular, and his pulse, while elevated, wasn’t showing signs of shock. Good signs.

The voice of their chief mechanic, Jake Henley, cut through the headset from his position at the hoist. “ETA to Anchorage Regional is ten minutes. Pediatric trauma standing by.”

Ryder nodded, relief washing through him. Ten minutes. Andrew’s fingers were warm and pink—good circulation despite the injury.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” Andrew whispered, his uninjured hand reaching for his father.

Taylor’s voice cracked as he took his son’s hand. “I’m right here, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.” Guilt and terror twisted the dad’s face.

“You saved his life out there,” Ryder said. “That was some pretty incredible dad reflexes.”

“I should have been watching him more closely. The wave came out of nowhere and—”

“Hey.” Ryder's voice was firm, eyes direct. “You jumped into freezing water without hesitation. You pulled him back. You saved his life. That's what matters.”

In his years of marine rescue, he’d seen too many tragedies born from split-second decisions, but Andrew’s dad had made all the right ones.

The helicopter banked slightly as Wyatt adjusted course, and Ryder braced himself against the movement while keeping Andrew steady. Through the small window, the lights of Anchorage grew larger against the early winter darkness.

“Look, Andrew.” Ryder pointed toward the window. “See those lights? That’s where we’re going. There’s a doctor there who fixes up superheroes just like you.”

Andrew managed a small smile, and something in Ryder’s chest loosened.

Almost there.

The handover at Anchorage Regional was swift and efficient. As soon as the Jayhawk touched down on the hospital’s rooftop helipad, the pediatric trauma team was already waiting—gurney ready, faces focused.

Ryder helped transfer the boy onto the stretcher, keeping the IV line clear as a trauma nurse adjusted the oxygen mask on Andrew’s face.

The attending ER physician ran alongside them as they moved down the corridor toward the pediatric trauma bay, calling out vitals and injury details Ryder had provided en-route.

Inside the brightly lit bay, a flurry of coordinated motion took over. Ryder stepped back, letting the trauma team work. An expert team. Andrew would be okay.

The pediatric surgeon glanced up after her assessment. “Surgery required to repair the tendons, but circulation's good. He'll keep full function.” She nodded at Ryder. “Clean dressing, textbook IV. You probably saved his hand.”

Harry Taylor, still soaked and gray-skinned, gripped his son’s other hand as they prepared to wheel Andrew toward pre-op. His voice broke around the edges of his thank you as he waved his goodbye at Ryder.

Ryder nodded once in acknowledgement, already running through post-op protocols in his head. He had somewhere else to be.

Two hours later, he pulled his truck into the driveway of the house that his brother Caleb shared with his wife Grace. Golden light spilled from the windows, and smoke curled from the chimney. His chest loosened in a way that had nothing to do with the successful rescue.

“Daddy!”

Three-year-old Ellie barreled toward him the second he stepped through the door. He barely got his boots off before she launched herself into his arms.

His Ellie. Safe.

The knot in his chest loosened.

“Tantie pan-makes! Yosie eat hand.” She shook her head. “Silly Yosie.”

Ryder laughed, caught her against his chest, breathing in her scent of apples and maple syrup.

Ellie was what mattered—the only thing that did.

“Did Josie eat her hand, bug?”

“No, silly Daddy.” Ellie giggled so hard she hiccuped, the sound filling every hollow space in him.

“Ryder.” Grace appeared in the doorway, Josie perched on her hip, the baby’s fist tangled in her hair. “Sounds like you’ve heard all about our pancake making.” Her smile came easily—motherhood suited her in the quiet, everyday ways he knew she’d feared she might never experience.

She and Caleb had fostered Josie just after Christmas and were planning to adopt—the happiest ending to a hard chapter.

“Rough day?” Grace studied him with the perceptive eyes that made her such a good fit for his brother. She'd watched Ellie multiple times over the past year, fitting it around her hours as a veterinary surgeon, never making him feel like he was imposing—always treating Ellie like her own.

“Long one.” He set Ellie down as Caleb came in from the kitchen, Dolly his dog padding close at his heels. The smell of casserole and wood smoke wrapped around them.

“Got dinner ready.” Caleb dried his hands on a dishtowel. “You staying, or just collecting your shadow?”

“Just collecting,” Ryder said with a tired smile.

Caleb gave a quick nod—a quiet, brotherly I’ve got you that didn’t need words—and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Grace lingered, bouncing Josie gently. “She had a good day. But she missed you. Always does.”

“Yeah?” Ryder’s voice came rough as Ellie twirled in front of the fireplace. “Guess she’s getting used to the drill. Daddy’s out saving people again.”

Grace’s smile gentled. “She’s proud of you, you know. Even if she can’t say it yet.”

He managed a half-smile. “I hope so.” He was doing everything he could to build stability for Ellie.

“I know it’s difficult.” Grace said. “But you’re doing an amazing job with her, Ryder. Look how happy she is.”

Ellie spun in a circle, mimicking a dance she’d seen on TV. She toppled over, shrieking with laughter, legs akimbo.

She was happy. That had to mean he wasn’t failing her.

“You’ve been working doubles all month.” Grace shifted Josie to her other hip. “You know we can watch Ellie more, right? Give you a night to yourself. Maybe even meet someone new?”

Ryder rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, tension coiling through his shoulders. “Grace—”

She only smiled. “I’m not saying rush into anything. But maybe opening that door again could be good for both of you.”

His jaw flexed. The air between them darkened with unspoken history. “I won’t put her through what we went through again. What happened with Miranda—”

The memory hit like it always did—walking through the door after a 24-hour shift, to his mom rocking a screaming Ellie, and a note on the counter.

Three lines.

I can't do this. I'm sorry. Don't try to find me.

His hands had shaken so badly he'd dropped the paper. Ellie's screams had echoed through the empty house—three months old and already abandoned.

“Was one person,” Grace said quietly. “One woman who made a terrible choice. That doesn't mean everyone will.”

The words hung between them as Ellie tugged on his pant leg. “Story, Daddy. Home?”

“Of course, bug.” He smoothed her hair, pushing Grace’s words aside.

Ellie was healthy and happy.

Alone was safe and predictable. Alone didn't wake up one morning and decide motherhood wasn't worth the trouble.

Twenty minutes later, he buckled her into her car seat. She was already half-asleep, thumb tucked in her mouth.

He paused, soaking in the sound of her soft breaths.

At home, he carried her sleeping form inside. He laid her gently in bed, tucked her bear under her arm, and brushed hair from her forehead.

“Lub, Daddy,” she mumbled.

“Love you too, bug.” He kissed her cheek.

He was a good father. He provided for her, loved her with everything he had. That was what mattered.

Downstairs, he moved through his nightly ritual—windows, doors, the tree line. The same checks he'd done every night since coming home to find Miranda gone.

As if locking the doors now could somehow lock out the past.

The house was too quiet without Ellie’s chatter, but the familiar actions steadied his hands, calmed the restlessness in his blood.

It was enough.

It had to be.