3. Mara
MARA
“Why didn’t you ever talk to me about him?”
No one answers.
Wolf stands behind the bar with both hands braced against the polished wood. Trigger remains beside the table near the fireplace.
Doc hasn’t moved from the door.
I recognize all three men.
They and the others stood together at Grant’s funeral fifteen years ago, wearing dress uniforms and carrying grief they tried to hide behind rigid expressions. I was sixteen, but I remember every face that entered the church without my brother.
Wolf and Trigger looked younger then.
Doc looks harder now.
His dark hair is touched with gray at the temples, and a pale scar cuts through one eyebrow, but I remember his eyes. I remember the way he stood apart from the other Rangers at the cemetery, staring at Grant’s casket as though he wanted to climb inside it with him.
I also remember him leaving before I could reach him.
Years later, the Rangers came to Eagle River and opened the Last Stand Tavern. I knew who they were, and they knew who I was.
But they never once spoke Grant’s name.
I convinced myself they didn’t want to remember him.
Now I know there was another reason.
“I asked you a question,” I say. “Why have neither of you ever talked to me about my brother?”
Wolf steps around the bar. “Mara?—”
“Don’t say my name as though that explains anything.”
He stops.
Rain strikes the tavern windows, driven hard against the glass by the wind. Sheriff Tate stands near the hallway leading to the kitchen, watching me with the careful expression he uses when he thinks I’m about to do something reckless.
He knows me too well.
“I recognized you the first time I walked into this tavern,” I tell Wolf. “I waited for you to say something. Anything. You poured my coffee, asked about my job, and acted as though we’d never seen each other before.”
“I knew you remembered me.”
“Then why didn’t you mention Grant?”
His jaw tightens.
“Because your mother asked me not to.”
The anger drains out of me so fast my knees threaten to buckle.
“What?”
“She came to the tavern the day after we opened,” Wolf says. “She told us she knew exactly who we were. Then she asked us to stay away from you.”
I stare at him.
“Why would she do that?”
“She didn’t want the war coming back into your life.”
“The war never left our lives.”
“I told her that.”
“But you still agreed.”
Wolf’s expression softens.
“She’d already buried her son and your father. I wasn’t going to ignore what she believed was necessary to protect her daughter.”
I turn toward Trigger. “Did she speak to you too?”
He nods. “She asked me not to tell you anything about Grant’s final deployment.”
“You could have refused.”
“I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she was terrified.”
The answer silences me.
My mother was the strongest woman I knew. Even after Dad died, she kept going. She never missed church. Never forgot a birthday. Never allowed grief to stop her from taking care of everyone around her.
But Grant’s death changed her.
After the funeral, she removed every photograph of him in uniform from the house. She stopped watching the news. If anyone mentioned Afghanistan, she found a reason to leave the room.
I believed it was grief.
Now I wonder how much of it was fear.
I look down at the journal clutched against my chest.
Mom hid it in a locked cedar chest. She placed Grant’s Army bag beneath her wedding dress and buried the key under a dresser drawer.
She didn’t destroy the journal.
But she made sure I wouldn’t find it while she was alive.
I turn to Sheriff Tate.
“Did you know Mom spoke to them?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“Mara—”
“Did she ask you to keep them away from me too?”
“She asked me not to encourage you to question them about Grant.”
“And you agreed.”
“I told her the truth would come out eventually.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“He was my brother.”
The hurt in my voice makes his expression soften.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think any of you do.” I look from him to Wolf and Trigger. “Grant belonged to us before he belonged to the Army. Mom and I spent fifteen years believing enemy soldiers killed him. All this time, you suspected someone betrayed him.”
Wolf’s eyes narrow. “What did you find in that journal?”
“Enough to know the official story wasn’t the whole truth.”
I turn toward Doc.
He is still standing near the door, rainwater dripping from his jacket onto the wooden floor. His attention hasn’t left the journal since he saw it.
“You knew too.”
“Yes.”
At least he doesn’t insult me by denying it.
“You disappeared after the funeral.”
“Yes.”
“Wolf and Trigger came to Eagle River. They built lives. You vanished.”
His expression remains unreadable.
“That was the idea.”
“Why?”
“That doesn’t matter tonight.”
“It matters to me.”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“You don’t want that answer yet.”
Anger snaps through me.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m ready to hear.”
“No.” His voice remains infuriatingly calm. “But I get to decide whether I tell you in a tavern filled with people while someone outside may still have a rifle trained on the windows.”
I cross the room until I stand a few feet from him.
“Did my mother ask you to stay away from me too?”
“Yes.”
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
The answer surprises me.
“Then why have I never seen you since the funeral?”
“Because I didn’t need her to tell me I had no right to be part of your life.”
“Why not?”
Something moves behind his eyes.
Pain.
Old, deep, and buried beneath fifteen years of silence.
“Because your brother died beneath my hands.”
The room goes still.
My anger falters.
“You were with him?”
“Yes.”
“When he died?”
Wolf shifts as though he intends to intervene.
Doc silences him with a glance.
“Yes,” he says again.
I grip the journal tighter.
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
“Was he afraid?”
Doc takes a step toward me.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he was insulting my medical skills while I tried to stop the bleeding.”
A broken sound escapes Trigger. It might be a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
Doc looks past me, into a memory none of us can see.
“He told me I was pressing hard enough to shove his spine through the ground. Then he said he was going to report me for damaging government property.”
That sounds like Grant.
It sounds so much like him that my throat closes.
I turn away before any of them see how close I am to crying.
I won’t do that here.
Not yet.
“What else did he say?”
The room goes silent.
I face Doc again.
“What did Grant say before he died?”
His gaze drops to the journal pressed against my chest.
“He asked me to protect you.”
The words hang between us.
For a moment, I don’t understand them.
Then I do.
My anger returns with enough force to keep the grief from swallowing me.
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Someone fired a bullet through your mother’s window.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It’s why I came tonight.”
“But you’ve been keeping track of me for years.”
Wolf glances sharply at him.
Trigger does the same.
Doc’s expression barely changes.
But I see it.
“You have, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
A strange pressure builds in my chest.
“How?”
“Public records. Newspaper articles. Department announcements.”
“You searched for me.”
“Once or twice a year.”
“For fifteen years?”
“Yes.”
This man has known where I was for half my life.
Not every day. Not every move I made.
But enough to know I graduated. Enough to know I became a deputy.
Enough to know I was still alive.
And he never spoke to me.
“You could have called.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from the man who couldn’t save your brother.”
The self-hatred in his voice stops me.
Just for a second.
Then I remember the journal.
“You didn’t kill him. Someone betrayed your unit.”
Doc’s face empties.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
He knows.
“You knew that too.”
“I suspected it.”
“Grant didn’t suspect. He knew.”
I open the journal and turn to the final entry. My hands have stopped shaking.
Anger steadies them now.
“He wrote that someone changed your coordinates. He said you were deliberately sent into a valley without air support. He discovered who did it the night before he died.”
Wolf comes closer. “Let me see that.”
I hold it away from him.
“You don’t get to ask me for anything yet.”
“Mara, if Grant wrote down a name?—”
“The bottom of the page is missing.”
Trigger moves to Wolf’s side. “Was it torn out?”
“Cut. Several earlier pages were torn out, but this one was cut with something sharp.”
Doc’s attention shifts to the journal.
“Where did you find it?”
“In Grant’s Army bag inside my mother’s cedar chest.”
“Who knew you were cleaning out the house?”
“Half the town.”
“Who knew about the chest?”
“My mother. Me.” I hesitate. “Sheriff Tate helped move it into her bedroom after Dad died.”
Tate nods. “That was nine years ago. It was already locked.”
Doc removes his wet jacket and places it over the back of a chair. I glimpse the weapon holstered beneath his left arm.
“What?” I ask.
“Someone entered the house before the shot was fired.”
My skin prickles.
“I heard a floorboard creak downstairs.”
His entire body changes.
One moment he’s standing several feet away.
The next, he’s directly in front of me.
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t realize I was required to report to you.”
His jaw tightens. “Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Was the front door locked?”
“Yes.”
“Back door?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“The living room window was open. I closed it before Sheriff Tate called.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
“It’s my mother’s house. I touched everything.”
“Where was the journal when you went downstairs?”
“On the bed.”
“Was it in the same position when you went back for it?”
I think about walking upstairs after Sheriff Tate arrived. Grant’s photograph was on the floor. The Army bag had fallen beside the bed when I stood too quickly.
The journal remained on the quilt.
At least, I thought it did.
“I don’t know.”
Doc looks at Wolf.
“The shooter wasn’t there only to kill her.”
“He wanted the journal,” Wolf says.
“Or something hidden inside it.”
I open the back cover and run my fingers along the leather. It feels thicker than the front, but that could be from age.
I press harder.
Something crackles beneath the lining.
Doc hears it.
“Put it on the table.”
“I can handle a journal.”
“It may contain something someone is willing to kill you to recover.”
“That makes it evidence, which means I’m the one qualified to handle it.”
“You’re emotionally involved.”
“And you aren’t?”
A muscle jumps along his jaw.
Wolf coughs into his hand.
Trigger suddenly becomes fascinated by the fireplace.
Good.
Let Doc try ordering someone else around.
I carry the journal to the nearest table and place it beneath the hanging light. Sheriff Tate retrieves an evidence kit from the case he brought inside earlier. I pull on gloves, then use a small knife to lift the edge of the leather lining.
Doc stands so close behind me I can feel the heat of him against my back.
“Move.”
“No.”
I look over my shoulder. “You’re crowding me.”
“I can see the door from here.”
“This tavern is filled with armed law enforcement officers and two former Army Rangers.”
“Three.”
“You haven’t been around for fifteen years. I’m not counting you yet.”
Something flickers across his face before it disappears.
I turn back to the journal, unsettled by the fact that I noticed.
The lining separates with a soft tearing sound.
A narrow plastic sleeve has been glued inside the back cover.
I ease it free.
There is no flash drive or memory card inside.
Only a strip of paper containing six numbers and three words written in Grant’s hand.
I read them aloud.
“Eight. Seventeen. Twenty-three. Last Stand wall.”
Wolf’s head snaps up.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He turns toward the far side of the tavern.
The wall is covered with military photographs, Ranger insignia, framed newspaper articles, and plaques honoring men who never made it home.
I’ve looked at it dozens of times.
Tonight, one photograph is missing.
An empty hook hangs between an American flag folded inside a wooden case and a framed Ranger crest.
Wolf crosses the room quickly.
“There was a photograph here.”
“Of what?” Sheriff Tate asks.
“Our unit in Afghanistan.” Wolf touches the bare space on the wall. “The original. Trigger and I hung it there when we opened the tavern.”
“The same photograph I found in Grant’s bag?”
“Taken on the same day, but not the same picture.”
“When did you last see it?”
“This morning.”
Trigger joins him. “It was there when I came in for breakfast.”
Doc studies the wall. “Who has been inside today?”
“Half the town,” Wolf says. “We opened at eleven.”
I examine the strip of paper again.
Eight.
Seventeen.
Twenty-three.
Three numbers.
“Do those numbers mean something to you?” I ask Doc.
He doesn’t answer.
That tells me enough.
“You recognize them.”
His eyes meet mine.
“Grant gave me something before we entered the valley.”
“What?”
“A piece of paper. Three numbers and a name.”
My pulse jumps.
“The same numbers?”
“I don’t know. The paper is locked in a box in my truck.”
“Then go get it.”
“No.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“Someone knows I’m here. Until we secure the street and check every vehicle outside, no one goes near my truck.”
“You don’t give orders in my town.”
“And you don’t walk into another rifle scope.”
“Doc,” Wolf warns.
But Doc doesn’t look away from me.
“The person who shot at you knew about my promise,” he says. “He knew Grant left evidence behind. Now a photograph has disappeared from this tavern, and someone entered your mother’s house while you were upstairs.”
“I understand the danger.”
“No. You understand an investigation. This is different.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re the target.”
I step closer until only inches separate us.
“I’m a deputy sheriff. I do not hide while other people hunt a man who tried to kill me.”
“I’m not asking you to hide.”
“It sounded like it.”
“I’m telling you to stay alive long enough to catch him.”
The words are quiet, but the force behind them ripples through me.
For the first time, I see what Grant must have seen in him.
The calm beneath the pressure.
The man who could kneel in the middle of a battlefield and put shattered soldiers back together while bullets struck the ground around him.
The man Grant trusted with his final promise.
I hate that some small part of me wants to trust him too.
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Good. I’m not one.”
“What are you?”
His eyes hold mine.
“The man your brother asked to stand between you and the bullet.”
Before I can answer, the lights go out.
The tavern falls into darkness.
Doc grabs me around the waist and takes me to the floor as the front window explodes.