Love for Thea (SEALed in Love #2)

Prologue

Summer, Fourteen Years Ago, The Adams Ranch, Wyoming

The air smelled of sweet clover and impending trouble.

Eighteen-year-old Ben Adams stood on the porch of the main house, absently rubbing a heavy brass shell casing between his thumb and forefinger, a spent bullet he had picked up at the ranch’s shooting range.

His father had carefully partitioned off a rugged clearing surrounded by low hills for him and his brothers.

Every day, Ben practiced his marksmanship there, sharpening his skills and steadying his nerves for military service.

When he decided to join the Navy and become a SEAL, he was unwavering in his determination to be the best. For weeks, he had pushed himself hard by running the ridgeline until his lungs burned and hauling hay bales until his back ached, but as his departure date drew near, restlessness gnawed at him from deep within.

From his vantage point, he could see the entire chaotic ecosystem that was his family. He was already looking at the ranch like a man who wouldn’t be there to catch it if it fell.

To the left, near the barn, Mace and Logan huddled over a beat-up dirt bike.

They were sixteen and filled with restless, kinetic energy that often ended with something broken.

Ben watched them through the shimmering heat: Logan waved a wrench toward the gully, while Mace shook his head, gesturing wildly at the engine.

They argued strategy, he was sure, their mouths moving in an intense, silent pantomime of twin-speak that didn’t need to reach his ears for him to grasp the gist.

Beside them, twelve-year-old Wyatt, their shadow, darted back and forth handing over tools. Farther off, nine-year-old Lila was a splash of color against the dry grass, her head bent over a sketchbook.

The screen door creaked, and his mother stepped out. She didn’t say anything at first; she just watched his hand, the way his thumb kept circling that piece of brass, over and over, as if he were trying to polish the doubt right out of it.

“It’ll still be here, Benji,” Marjorie Adams said softly, leaning against the railing beside him.

Ben startled slightly, shoving the casing back into his pocket. “I know, Ma. I was just checking the north pasture. The clouds look heavy.”

“The clouds are fine,” she murmured, reaching over to still his restless hand where it now gripped the porch railing.

“You’ve got that look your father gets when the winter is coming on too fast. You’re worried about who’s going to fix the fences and who’s going to keep the twins from jumping the gully. ”

Ben’s gaze dropped to his scuffed boots, the worn leather heavy beneath the fading light.

The usual sounds of the ranch had fallen away, leaving a silence so loud it pressed against his chest. The cool breeze stirred the dust around the corral, but it couldn’t sweep away the ache tightening inside him.

“I feel like I’m deserting my post,” he whispered, voice rough with unshed emotion.

She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, her hands lingering on his shoulders as if measuring how much broader they’d grown.

“I’m proud of you. Not just because you want to be a hero, but because you’re the kind of man who’s afraid to leave precisely because he cares so much.

It’s time to pass the baton to your brothers. ”

“Thanks, Ma.” Ben gave her a small, reassuring smile, finally letting the tension in his shoulders ease. “I’ll get the crew moving.”

As she turned to leave, Marjorie looked over her shoulder and pleaded softly, “Promise me you won’t help them get that bike running. They’ve got enough ambition to bypass common sense. I don’t need two broken collarbones before grace is said.”

He jogged down the steps, his boots crunching on the gravel. On the porch, five-year-olds Sophia and Zara were arguing over whose doll got the “big bedroom” in their plastic dollhouse.

“Time to pick up, munchkins,” Ben called out. Then he let out a sharp, ear-piercing whistle. Near the barn, Mace, Logan, and Wyatt snapped their heads up as if they’d been hit by a spotlight. Ben pointed a stern finger toward the woodpile.

Mace shot him a grin, giving him a sloppy salute. “Easy there, Lieutenant. You’re not in boot camp yet.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, calm down, Commander. We’ll get to it.”

Wyatt darted between them, eager to keep up as they started toward the woodpile.

Ben rolled his eyes and threatened, “Don’t make me have to knock your heads together.”

Mace laughed. “We’ll see about that, Benji. Don’t be gettin’ in that uniform too early.”

Ben smirked. “Just wait until you have to herd the young’uns.”

Then he turned toward the creek and spotted two figures kneeling near the old oak tree: Carole, thirteen and lanky, and her shadow, Thea.

Thea Wynn, also thirteen, was their neighbor’s only child. To Ben, she was part of the fabric of the ranch, quiet and observant, always trailing Carole like a second shadow. He jogged over and asked, “Everything okay over here?”

Carole looked up, mud streaking her chin. “We found a bird, Ben. A baby robin. It fell.”

In Thea’s small, cupped hands rested a tiny, shivering ball of fluff.

She wasn’t crying; instead, she stared at the bird with fierce intensity.

Her left palm held the fledgling gently, while her right hand hovered protectively like a lid.

Even as she guarded it, her index and middle fingers pressed firmly against the pulse point on her own left wrist.

“The bird’s heart is beating rapidly,” Thea whispered, her gaze steady as she monitored both its rhythm and her own. “It’s too fast, like a tiny clock counting down. I’m trying to slow my breathing so he won’t be scared.”

“His wing looks funny,” Carole added, her voice trembling. “Benji, if we put him back, will his mom still want him? I heard if a human touches a baby bird, the parents will smell us and leave it to die.”

Thea didn’t look away from the tree, her fingers still pressed firmly to her own pulse point.

“That’s a myth, Carole. Data point: most birds have a very poorly developed sense of smell.

They won’t even know we were here. Data point: the parental instinct to provide food and protection is statistically stronger than the fear of a foreign scent. ”

Carole blinked, looking more confused by the data points than the bird.

Ben, however, just leaned against the tree trunk watching Thea.

He’d lived around the girl long enough to know her tells.

When the twins were upset, they broke things; when Carole was upset, she cried.

When Thea was upset, she started counting data points.

He didn’t think it was weird; he just thought it was the way Thea’s brain handled stress. It was consistent. And on a ranch with seven siblings and constant chaos, Ben appreciated anything that was consistent.

“You heard her, Carole. Thea’s got the facts.” Ben gave Thea a quick, easy nod, treating her like any other member of the crew. “Data says he goes back in the nest.”

He reached down, and Thea handed over the bird with a solemnity that made him feel like he was being handed a live grenade.

“We have to put him back,” Thea said, her dark eyes locking onto his. She didn’t ask him to do it; she just looked at him like he was the only person standing between the bird and the end of the world.

“Alright,” he said seriously, his voice dropping an octave. “Hand him over.”

Ben carefully tucked the bird into his shirt, climbed the oak tree, and settled the fledgling back into the nest. When he dropped back down, he saw Thea finally let go of her wrist, her shoulders dropping an inch.

“Done,” Ben said, looking to the girls for their approval.

“Thanks, Benji,” Carole breathed, her eyes bright with relief. She turned to Thea, looping an arm through her friend’s. “You’re staying for supper, right? Ma said she was making extra biscuits because it’s almost…umm you know.”

Carole didn’t finish the sentence, but the shadow of Ben’s departure fell over the group anyway. Thea didn’t answer Carole right away. She looked up at the high branches of the oak tree, then back at Ben, her gaze uncomfortably direct.

“You’re leaving soon,” Thea said. It wasn’t a question; it was another fact she had cataloged.

“Two weeks,” Ben nodded.

“To go be a soldier. To save people.”

“A SEAL,” he corrected gently.

Thea nodded slowly, her mind seeming to weigh the new title against the boy she had known her whole life.

“You’re good at saving things,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice devoid of the usual teenage teasing.

“Data point: your success rate with the livestock and the local wildlife is statistically significant. So you’ll probably be good at that, too. ”

Ben felt a strange, unexpected lump in his throat. He’d heard plenty of “Oorahs” and proud speeches from this dad and the twins, but there was something about Thea’s clinical assessment that made it feel more real. To her, his success wasn’t a hope; it was a calculation.

“Thanks, Thea,” Ben said, giving her a small, lopsided smile. “I’ll try not to mess up the percentages.”

Suddenly, Ronald Adams’ booming voice called out across the yard, “Kids! Supper!”

Ben blinked, startled by how late it had grown. The sun was dipping low, shadows stretching across the yard. Time had slipped away while they’d been distracted. He muttered under his breath, “Hopefully everyone finished their chores.”

The call to supper drew the family inside, where the kitchen buzzed with the clatter of plates and eager shouts.

Ronald took his seat at the head of the long oak table, waiting as the eight children and Thea settled in.

Ben slid into his usual spot beside Wyatt, while across from them, Mace made a stealthy grab for a biscuit.

“Negative, Mace,” Logan hissed, swatting at his twin’s hand. “That’s not optimal infiltration! You need a diversion first!”

“My stomach’s on a recon mission!” Mace retorted, a crumb already clinging to his chin.

Ben chuckled, watching the twins’ antics amid the clatter of plates, the scraping of forks, and the occasional burst of laughter filling the warm kitchen.

Ever since he’d signed his enlistment papers, the twins had traded “cowboys and Indians” for military manuals and tactical lingo.

They were obsessed with the vocabulary of his future, as if speaking the language would bring them closer to the world he was about to enter.

Ronald raised a single eyebrow: that was “the look.” Mace immediately dropped the biscuit, mumbling an apology.

“Zara, Sophie, sit still,” Ronald addressed the five-year-old twins whose fingers fidgeted with napkins and whose eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Who can tell me what we saw in the garden today? What were the bees doing?”

“They were dancing!” Sophie giggled, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. “On the big yellow flowers!”

“They’re making honey,” Zara added importantly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “But they’re fuzzy. I want to pet one.”

“Don’t pet the bees, Zara,” Ronald laughed, the rich scent of fresh bread and stew weaving through the air.

Then he turned to Thea. “And you, Thea? I saw you out by the creek with your notebook. What was the verdict on the water levels?”

Thea’s face flushed. Immediately, her hand slipped beneath the table, pressing her index and middle fingers into the pulse point of her opposite wrist as she gathered her thoughts. Ben noticed the small, hidden movement but said nothing.

“The snowmelt is higher this year, Mr. Adams,” she said in measured tones.

“But the water in the north bend is murky. Based on observations, the runoff from the old quarry could be altering the pH levels. It might be best to run a test rather than assume. They say frogs are good indicators, and since they’re not nesting where they usually do, something is definitely off. ”

Ronald watched Thea quietly, his eyes softened with respect and gentle compassion.

He knew she was different from his own children.

As the only child of older parents, Thea had grown up surrounded more by books and ideas than the usual chaos of childhood friendships.

Carole had been her only steady friend. Her words came carefully measured, shaped by a mind that sought certainty in data rather than small talk.

He nodded slowly. “Thank you, Thea. You’ve given me a lot to think about. ”

“Benji, where does butter come from?” Zara asked, tugging his sleeve. She glanced down at the pale, creamy butter melting slowly on her biscuit, poking at it thoughtfully with her finger.

Wyatt sat next to Ben, shifting slightly as he tried to sound as grown-up as the twins but stumbled over his words. “Cows, but it doesn’t grow in them, Zara. It’s, um, like science…the ranch provides the milk, and then we—uh—enzymatic something with the fats to make butter.”

Mace scoffed. “Enzymatic something? What are you even talking about, Wyatt?”

Logan laughed. “Sounds like you swallowed a dictionary.”

Marjorie’s voice cut through sharply. “Enough. Mace, Logan.”

Thea spoke softly, surprising everyone. “He means the milk’s cream is churned to separate the fat and make butter. It’s a chemical process, but not really enzymatic.”

Wyatt gave a relieved smile. “Yeah, that.”

Lila scoffed. “It’s just butter, Wyatt. And the yellow would look great on a canvas.”

Ben chuckled and leaned down to Zara. “The cows give the milk, and Ma makes the butter. The ranch provides the food, Zara, just like Wyatt said. In a big way.”

Zara poked thoughtfully at the butter on her biscuit as Ronald’s voice cut through the bustle. “Alright, everyone,” he said, lowering his head slightly. “Let’s say grace.”

Twenty-two hands clasped, some fingers still pausing mid-air, others resting briefly on plates. A rare silence settled over the noisy kitchen. As soon as the murmured “Amen” faded, the clatter and chatter rose again.

“Hey, Benji,” Sophia piped up, her eyes bright. “Did you really save that bird?”

Ben smiled, catching Thea’s eye. She was no longer pressing her wrist; instead, she gave him a small, approving nod. “Yeah, Smarty-Pants. He’s safe.”

Ben watched his family, a familiar warmth spreading through him.

He didn’t know then that the hardest battles wouldn’t be across the ocean.

He didn’t know that fourteen years later, the quiet girl with the fierce eyes wouldn’t be counting frogs anymore.

She’d be documenting a dying mountain, and she’d be the one he would have to save even as she saved them