Chapter 4
THATCHER
Morning light filters through the guest room window, pulling me from a light sleep. The bed is better than the couch—actual support, room to stretch out. But I still woke twice during the night to check the perimeter.
I check my phone. Zero-five-thirty. Gwen's still asleep.
I make coffee quietly, then grab my gear. Corporal Martinez should be here any minute to cover while I run PT with the team.
Right on schedule, there's a knock. I check the peephole, see Martinez in fatigues.
"Morning, sir." Martinez nods. "Ready when you are."
"Two hours. Anything happens, you call me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Gwen's door opens while I'm lacing my boots. She emerges in a robe, hair messy, eyes still half-closed.
"Morning," she says, voice rough with sleep. "You're leaving?"
"PT with my team. Martinez is here." I gesture to the corporal standing by the door. "I'll meet you at the hospital."
She blinks at Martinez, then at me. "You're leaving me with someone I don't know?"
"Martinez is one of my guys. Good Marine, better shot than me."
"Not a high bar, sir," Martinez says with a grin.
Gwen doesn't look reassured. "How long will you be gone?"
"Two hours, maybe less." Something in her expression makes me pause. "You okay with this?"
She pulls the robe tighter. "Fine. Just wasn't expecting company this early."
"I can make coffee before I go—"
"I know how to make coffee, Thatcher." But there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "Go. Do your PT thing. I'll be fine."
I head out, but something about the way she looked at Martinez bothers me. Not scared, exactly. Just... off-balance.
The morning air is cool when I step outside, perfect for a run. By the time I reach the training area, the rest of the team are already warming up. Hayes stands off to the side, his shoulder still healing from the training accident.
Morning PT feels different. Somewhere between pull-ups and running the obstacle course, Hayes catches my eye with a knowing grin.
The obstacle course mud is fresh from last night's rain, and it sucks at my boots with each step. I vault over the wall, land hard, keep moving. The team flanks me on either side, breathing steady and controlled.
My muscles burn in that familiar way that says I'm alive, functional, sharp. This is where I'm supposed to be most comfortable—physical exertion, clear objectives, measurable results. Except today my head isn't fully in it, and Hayes notices.
"So," he says as we cool down, his arm still in a sling. "This doctor you're protecting. How's that going?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?" Hayes grins. "Word is she's smart. Took on a federal investigation single-handed."
"She documented equipment theft. NCIS is investigating." I don't elaborate.
Hayes laughs. "Man, you should see your face right now. All locked down and professional."
"Because it is professional."
"Sure it is." His grin widens. "That why you've been staying at her place every night?"
"Protective detail. The attack in the parking lot wasn't random." The memory of her fighting off that assailant tightens my jaw—the way she'd gone for his eyes without hesitation, the sound of her elbow connecting with his ribs. "Until NCIS closes the case, she needs security."
"Right. Security." Hayes doesn't sound convinced. "So how hot is this doctor?"
I stop. Hayes gets the full force of my attention. "Drop it."
"That hot, huh?" He grins. "Boss, you know we've got your back. Whatever this is."
"There's nothing to have my back on. I'm doing my job."
The words feel hollow even as I say them. Because Hayes is right—this stopped being just a job somewhere between cooking her breakfast and listening to her admit she's bad at emotional conversations.
Hayes holds up his good hand in surrender, but he's still grinning. "All right, all right. Good to see you actually giving a damn about someone again. Been a while."
He heads back toward the equipment shed, but the observation sits heavy. My team reads me too well. They know the difference between professional focus and personal investment.
And right now, I'm broadcasting the latter loud and clear.
At base, I shower and change, check my phone. A text from Gwen waits:
Surgery went long. Still in the OR.
I respond:
Take your time. I'll be here.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then:
Thank you.
Two simple words. They shouldn't mean as much as they do.
Commander Hartwell catches me in the hallway outside the briefing room. "Caine. Got a minute?"
"Sir."
We step into his office. He closes the door, gestures for me to sit. I remain standing.
"How's the protective detail going?"
"Dr. Abernathy is safe. No further incidents since the parking lot attack."
"And NCIS?"
"They're pursuing leads based on her documentation. Rivera seems confident they'll make arrests soon."
Hartwell nods slowly. "Good. The brass is concerned about supply chain vulnerabilities. If someone's systematically targeting trauma equipment, that's a national security issue."
"Understood, sir."
"You staying sharp on this, Caine? Protective detail isn't your usual assignment."
The question carries weight. He's asking if I'm compromised. If my focus is where it needs to be.
"Sharp," I say with more certainty than I feel.
Hartwell studies me for a long moment. "All right. Keep me updated. Dismissed."
I head straight to the hospital. Park in the lot where Gwen fought for her life and scan the area automatically—threats, vulnerabilities, escape routes.
Martinez is waiting outside the surgical suite. "She's in OR 3, sir. Been in there about an hour."
"I've got her from here. Thanks for covering."
"Yes, sir."
I position myself where I can see anyone who enters or exits. Hours pass. Staff come and go in scrubs, some recognizing me with a nod, others ignoring me entirely.
Late afternoon, Gwen emerges from the OR still in scrubs. Her face tells me everything before she says a word.
"Patient didn't make it," she says quietly. "Motorcycle accident. Multiple injuries. Internal bleeding we couldn't stop."
Her cheeks are dry, but exhaustion runs deeper than physical fatigue.
Her scrubs have blood on them—not a lot, a small spray pattern on her left shoulder that she probably doesn't even know is there.
Her hair is coming loose from whatever she did to keep it back during surgery, and there's a red line across her nose from where her surgical mask sat.
This is the cost of caring. The burden of trying to save everyone and knowing you can't.
"You hungry?"
She blinks at the subject change. "What?"
"When's the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast, maybe?"
"Come on." I extend my hand. "Let's get out of here."
"Thatcher, I should—"
"Should what? Replay every decision you made in that OR?" I don't waver. "You did your job. Patient died anyway. Standing here won't change that."
She looks at my hand for a long moment. The debate plays out in silence—the part of her that wants to stay and punish herself for a death that wasn't her fault, and the part that's too tired to fight me on this.
She takes it. Her fingers are cold, her grip tight. I don't let go immediately, because her hand in mine feels like the only thing anchoring either of us right now.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Somewhere quiet. Off base. Where you can be Gwen for a while, not Dr. Abernathy."
The tension in her frame eases. "Let me change first. Five minutes."
She disappears into the locker room. When she emerges, she's in jeans and a sweater, hair down, the blood and surgical mask lines gone. She grabs her bag, and we head out to the parking lot.
She's exhausted. As her Range Rover is closer than my truck, I decide we'll take her vehicle instead.
"Keys?" I ask.
She digs in her bag and tosses them to me. "Thanks."
I help her into the passenger seat. The driver's side leather seat adjusts with a quiet hum, and the interior still smells new—or maybe expensive. There's a reusable coffee cup in the holder and nothing else. No clutter, no personal items. Another controlled space in a controlled life.
She watches the passing streetlights in silence. I don't push conversation. The quiet between us needs no filling.
Soon, I pull into the parking lot of Rosie's Diner. It's family-owned, the kind of place that doesn't ask questions. The building sits low and squat, white paint peeling near the roofline. Three pickup trucks and a sedan occupy the parking spaces nearest the door.
Inside, we slide into a corner booth. The vinyl seats are worn smooth, and the laminate table has water rings that won't come out. But it's clean, and the smell of coffee and bacon grease is oddly comforting.
A waitress with gray hair brings menus and water.
Gwen orders coffee. I get the same. When the waitress leaves, Gwen meets my eyes.
"Why here?"
"Because nobody knows you here. Nobody expects anything from you." I settle against the booth. "You can exist for a while."
She takes a sip of water. "Thank you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it." Her gaze is direct. "You didn't have to do this. The protective detail doesn't require taking me to dinner."
"No, it doesn't." I don't look away. "But you looked like you needed to get away."
The waitress returns with coffee in thick ceramic mugs. We order food without really looking at the menus—burger and fries for me, grilled cheese and soup for her.
"Tell me about where you grew up," Gwen says when the waitress leaves.
The subject change surprises me. "Montana? What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What it was like growing up there. Your family. Why you left."
I take a drink of coffee, buy myself time. "I grew up on a cattle ranch outside White Sulphur Springs. Population maybe a thousand people."
"That sounds isolated."
"It was. Mountains in every direction, sky so big you could see forever." I can picture it now—the way sunrise painted the peaks gold, how winter storms rolled in from the north. "Winters were brutal, but summers were perfect."
"Do you miss it?"