Chapter 4
One Year Ago
Mary gripped the steering wheel of her accessible van, her knuckles white as she turned off the highway onto the two-lane road that would take her deeper into Montana’s backcountry.
The mountains rose ahead of her like old friends welcoming her home, their peaks still dusted with snow despite the warmth in the valleys below.
Back home.
The thought whispered through her mind, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Ever since the accident that had changed everything, the time spent in rehabilitation facilities and adaptive equipment training, she’d grown tired of well-meaning therapists telling her she needed to “adjust her expectations.” And now, finally, she was back where she belonged.
Not just visiting family, but hopefully employed in a career she craved being a part of.
The landscape rolled past her windows in waves of gold and green, dotted with dark stands of evergreens that covered the hillsides toward the mountains.
Open country. The kind of space that made you remember how small you were and somehow made you feel larger at the same time.
She’d grown up about an hour from here, on a small ranch where she’d learned to ride before she could properly read.
Her childhood had been filled with the smell of hay and leather, the sound of wind through prairie grass, and the endless Montana sky stretching overhead.
She’d joined the Navy to see the world, to prove she was more than just a ranch girl from a tiny town. And she had. She’d excelled in logistics, rising through the ranks, earning respect and responsibility. She’d been good at what she did. No… I was fucking excellent at what I did.
Until a distracted driver ran a red light on base and turned her life inside out.
Mary’s hands tightened on the wheel again, her jaw clenching.
She forced herself to breathe, to release the anger that still flared up at unexpected moments.
The accident that caused the incomplete spinal cord injury at the T12-L1 junction, which had stolen the use of her legs, wasn’t her fault.
But it had still happened. And she’d had to learn to live with it.
The GPS on her phone chirped, indicating her turn was coming up. Mary slowed, spotting the entrance to what the map labeled simply as “Bishop Property.” A security camera was mounted on a post near the gate, discreet but visible to anyone who knew to look for it.
As she approached, the gate swung open smoothly.
Logan Bishop must have been watching. She’d been clear with him on the phone about her requirements for this interview, and apparently, he’d taken her seriously.
That was another good sign. Too many people heard “wheelchair” and immediately decided they needed to help, to manage, to take over.
She’d learned early on to be direct about her boundaries.
“If you’re going to hire me, you need to see what it’s really like. No special accommodations. No extra assistance. Just me, doing the job,” she told him.
Logan had agreed without hesitation. “Fair enough, Ms. Smithwick. We’ll see you Tuesday at eleven hundred hours.”
Military time. Military directness. She’d appreciated that.
The property opened up before her, and Mary’s breath caught slightly.
Rolling grassland stretched toward a cluster of buildings nestled at the base of rising hills.
Beyond them, the mountains climbed toward a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.
The main house was set away from the compound, larger than she’d expected.
The two-story structure appeared new but had been designed to blend with the landscape rather than dominate it.
She wondered if that was Logan’s house. Closer to her, still nestled into the hills, was a building with construction trucks parked outside. Probably the main headquarters.
Near it stood what looked like an expanded bunkhouse, and farther back, she could see the glint of metal that might be hangars.
But it was the setting that caught her. The space.
The openness. The way the wind moved through the grass in visible waves, and the absolute quiet was broken only by the sound of her engine.
Home. The thought came again, stronger this time.
She followed the driveway to where a smaller building stood near the outer fence, clearly separate from the main compound. A man stood near the gate, watching her approach. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of stillness that suggested military training. That must be Logan Bishop.
Mary pulled to a stop on the hard-packed dirt near the building, her heart rate picking up despite her determination to stay calm and professional.
This mattered. This job mattered. Not just because she needed work, though she did.
Not just because the colonel had put his reputation on the line recommending her, though he had.
But she needed to prove to herself that she could still do this.
That she was still valuable, still capable, still herself despite everything that had changed.
She put the van in Park and took a moment to collect herself.
Her hands moved through the familiar sequence of preparing to exit.
Seat belt off. Check the hand controls. Make sure her chair was properly positioned.
These movements had become automatic over the past year, muscle memory replacing the other kind she’d lost.
Through the windshield, she could see that three other men had joined Logan. They stood in a loose group, clearly waiting for her but not crowding.
Mary hit the button for the side door. The mechanics of the door sliding open were loud in the quiet morning, and she felt the weight of four pairs of eyes on her.
This was the moment she’d learned to read people.
Some looked away, embarrassed or uncomfortable.
Some watched with curiosity that bordered on rudeness.
The worst were the ones who immediately stared with pity.
She transferred from the driver’s seat with practiced efficiency and positioned her wheelchair at the edge of the deployed ramp.
She rolled forward down the ramp’s gentle angle, and her wheels found purchase easily on the textured surface.
At the bottom, she paused to work the controls, sending the ramp back into the van and closing the side door.
The whole process took only a few minutes.
Less than five minutes of being watched… of being judged.
She’d told Logan not to help, and to his credit, none of the men had moved. But she could feel their attention, their assessment. Her stomach tightened. This was always the hardest part. The moment when people decided who she was based on what they saw rather than what she could do.
Mary rolled toward them, keeping her chin up and her expression pleasant but professional. The building had a new ramp leading to its small, covered porch, and she noted with approval that the grade was ADA compliant and the surface looked sturdy. Someone had built that recently.
As she drew closer, she got her first good look at the four men.
Logan Bishop was easy to identify by his position slightly in front of the others and the way he held himself with quiet authority.
The other three were clearly military or former military.
All of them were fit and alert with that particular way of standing that suggested they could spring into action at a moment’s notice.
The man on Logan’s left had an easy smile already forming. The one on the right was broader in the shoulders, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled often. But it was the third man, standing slightly back, who caught and held her attention.
He was tall, with lean muscles, dark hair, and blue eyes that were currently fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse skip.
His expression was serious, almost solemn, but there was nothing harsh about it.
If anything, he looked like he was working very hard to keep his expression neutral, as if he was afraid of giving something away.
Mary reached the base of the ramp and looked up at the four men, letting her smile widen. She’d learned that projecting confidence was half the battle. If she acted as if this was completely normal, as if she belonged here, most people would accept that.
“Hello. I’m Mary Smithwick. I believe I’m expected.”
Her voice came out steady. The voice of someone who was competent and approachable and absolutely did not need to be treated like she was fragile.
Logan Bishop stepped forward immediately, moving down the ramp to stand on level ground with her. His handshake was firm without being crushing, and his eyes were direct without being invasive. “I’m Logan Bishop. Welcome to Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana.”
Up close, she could see the intelligence in his eyes and the measured way he took her in without staring. This man assessed situations professionally, who saw assets and capabilities rather than limitations. Her shoulders relaxed fractionally.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bishop. Admiral Brenner spoke very highly of you.”
Something that might have been pleasure flickered across Logan’s face. “The admiral’s recommendation carries a lot of weight here. Let me introduce you to the team.” He gestured to each man in turn. “This is Sisco Aguilar, Jim Devlin, and Bert Tomlinson.”
The one with the easy smile moved down the ramp first, and Mary immediately liked him. “Ms. Smithwick, it’s a pleasure,” Sisco said, his handshake warm and his smile genuine. “You can call me Sisco.”
“And I’m just Mary,” she replied easily.
“I go by Devlin, although I’ve been known to be called Devil by some who know me best. If half of what the admiral said is true, we’re lucky to have you here,” Devlin added, his enthusiasm apparent but not overwhelming.
He had kind eyes, the type that suggested he’d be quick with a joke but serious when it mattered.
Then the third man descended the ramp, and Mary’s breath caught slightly as he approached. Bert Tomlinson. Up close, his gaze was even more arresting, as his eyes held hers. Blue, clear, and currently holding an expression she couldn’t quite read.
He stopped in front of her, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. Then he extended his hand.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice rougher than she’d expected, deeper. “Um… welcome.”
His hand was warm and calloused when she took it, the grip firm but careful, as if he was very aware of his own strength.
She shook it with the firmness her father had taught her years ago, meeting his gaze directly.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, their hands remained clasped, and something passed between them that Mary couldn’t quite name.
Then he released her hand and stepped back, and she saw something flicker across his face.
Uncertainty? Discomfort? She couldn’t tell, and that bothered her more than it should have.
She’d gotten good at reading people over the past couple of years.
She’d had to. But Bert Tomlinson was harder to categorize than most.
Was he uncomfortable with the wheelchair? Turned off by her physical limitations? Or was he just naturally quiet, naturally serious, and she was reading too much into a simple introduction?
Despite her uncertainty, something about him drew her in. Something in the way he’d looked at her, not through her or past her or with pity, but at her. Like he was trying to figure her out the same way she was trying to figure him out.
Give him a chance, she thought. Don’t write him off yet.
She’d become too good at dismissing people who couldn’t see past her chair. The ones whose eyes slid away in discomfort, or who spoke to her in that patronizing tone people seemed to think was appropriate for anyone with a disability. The ones who saw limitations before they saw her.
But Bert Tomlinson hadn’t looked away. He’d just looked uncomfortable in a way that seemed more about himself than about her, and that was different.
Logan gestured toward the office entrance. “Let’s head inside, and we can talk about what we’re building here.”
Mary nodded and turned her chair toward the ramp, very aware of the eyes still on her.
She’d navigated ramps thousands of times in the past two years, but this one felt different.
This one mattered. The incline was perfect, the surface smooth, and she ascended it with the kind of easy grace that came from practice and determination in equal measure.
At the top, Logan held the door, and she rolled through into the interior of the building.
Behind her, she heard footsteps retreating as the other men headed back to whatever work they’d been doing before her arrival.
But in her mind, she kept seeing blue eyes, a solemn expression, and calloused hands that had been careful with hers.
She glanced over her shoulder and watched as Bert turned to walk away.
A hearing aid was barely visible, but enough that she noticed.
Before she had time to process that a hearing loss might be part of Bert’s quiet intensity, Logan moved into a room. Focus, she told herself firmly. I’m here for a job, not to get distracted by a man I just met.
As she followed Logan deeper into the office, preparing herself for the interview that would determine her future, Mary couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Bert Tomlinson might be part of that future, whether she planned for it or not.
And for the first time in two years, that possibility didn’t feel like a complication. It felt like hope.