5. Mara #2
“We should go inside.”
He carries the case into the kitchen without looking back.
Trigger watches him leave, then looks at me.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to.”
His expression turns innocent.
“I was only going to mention that Doc hasn’t looked at a woman like that for as long as I’ve known him.”
Heat climbs into my face.
“He was checking my injury.”
“Your injury is above your eyebrow.”
Sheriff Tate returns from the street.
“What are we discussing?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Trigger smiles. “Mara’s head injury.”
“I don’t have a head injury.”
“Then get inside before Doc gives himself one from worrying about you,” Sheriff Tate says.
I stare at both men.
“You Rangers are irritating.”
Tate lifts an eyebrow. “I wasn’t a Ranger.”
“Then you’ve been spending too much time with them.”
I walk into the tavern before either man can answer.
Wolf locks the metal case inside his office while we move upstairs.
The Last Stand has seven rooms along a narrow hallway. Most are empty, though Wolf says Rangers and their families use them whenever they need a place to stay.
Room Five is at the far end.
Doc takes Room Four.
I stop outside my door.
“Absolutely not.”
He unlocks the room beside mine. “What?”
“You aren’t sleeping next door.”
“I’m not planning to sleep.”
“Then you aren’t standing guard next door.”
“I’ll sit in the hallway if you prefer.”
“That would be worse.”
“Then Room Four seems reasonable.”
“You can stay downstairs with Wolf and Trigger.”
“They’ll be covering the doors.”
“Sheriff Tate has deputies outside.”
“Someone shot through a tavern window while the building was filled with armed men. I’m not relying on numbers.”
I lower my voice.
“I don’t need you guarding me because of a promise you made fifteen years ago.”
His hand stills on the doorknob.
For one instant, pain shows in his face.
Then it’s gone.
“Tonight isn’t about the promise.”
“What is it about?”
“Keeping you alive.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
Before I can ask him to explain, he opens his door and disappears inside.
I stare at the empty hallway.
The man is impossible.
Closed off, controlling, infuriatingly calm—and carrying my brother’s dog tags next to his heart.
I enter Room Five and close the door.
It’s small but comfortable, with a wooden dresser, an iron bed, and a quilt that looks handmade. Someone left a vase of wildflowers on the nightstand. Knowing Nora, they were probably cut from the garden behind the tavern.
I set Grant’s journal on the dresser.
The sight of it makes sleep impossible.
I remove my holster, place my weapon on the nightstand, and sit on the edge of the bed. Every muscle hurts from being thrown to the floor twice in one day.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I reach for my weapon.
“Mara.”
Doc.
I open the door but leave the chain fastened.
He looks at it.
“Really?”
“I’ve known you for less than three hours.”
“You opened the door.”
“I also have a gun.”
His gaze moves past me to the nightstand.
“Good.”
“What do you want?”
He holds out a folded piece of paper.
“We found this inside the metal case.”
I don’t take it.
“You didn’t know it was there?”
“Not where we found it.”
“Where was it?”
“Beneath the lining. Wolf noticed one corner had come loose.”
I unfasten the chain and open the door wider.
Doc hands me the paper.
It’s old, creased, and stained dark brown along one edge.
Grant’s handwriting covers the page.
If anything happens to me, Doc has the coordinates.
The photograph has the names.
Mara has the key.
My heart stops.
“What key?”
Doc watches me carefully. “I was hoping you knew.”
For a moment, I don’t.
Then a memory surfaces.
Not Afghanistan.
Not Grant’s funeral.
A hot afternoon before his final deployment.
Grant sitting on the tailgate of his truck while I complained about having to spend Saturday helping Dad clean the garage. He’d reached into his pocket and tossed something at me.
A small silver key.
I caught it against my chest.
What’s this?
Key to my lockbox.
I’d rolled my eyes.
You have a lockbox? What are you, eighty?
He’d laughed and shoved my shoulder.
Just keep it, brat.
I remember slipping it onto my charm bracelet because I was afraid I’d lose it.
I look at Doc.
“Grant gave me a key before he deployed.”
His expression sharpens. “To what?”
“His lockbox.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“No. I was sixteen. I assumed it held paperwork, money, maybe the title to his motorcycle.” My throat tightens. “After he died, I forgot about it.”
“But you kept the key.”
“Yes. It’s still on my charm bracelet.”
“Where’s the bracelet?”
“At my house.”
Doc closes his eyes briefly.
“The house we don’t know is secure.”
“The bracelet isn’t the important part. We need to find Grant’s lockbox.”
“Where did he keep it?”
“In the garage, I think.”
“You think?”
“It was fifteen years ago.”
“Would your mother have known about it?”
The question makes me go still.
Mom knew about Grant’s Army bag.
She knew about the journal.
She knew enough about his final deployment to ask Wolf and Trigger to stay away from me.
And she knew Grant had given me that key.
“I think she moved it.”
“Why?”
“Because after Grant died, Mom went through everything he owned. His clothes. His motorcycle parts. Boxes from his apartment. She kept some things and donated others.”
“But not the journal.”
“No.”
The truth settles slowly.
“She hid that.”
Doc’s gaze holds mine.
“If she found the lockbox too…”
“She may have hidden it somewhere else.”
“Which means Grant wasn’t giving you evidence before he deployed.”
I look at the note again.
Mara has the key.
“No. He was telling you who could open something he already owned.”
Doc takes the paper from me and studies Grant’s handwriting.
“And if he discovered the betrayal after he deployed, he could have sent something home later.”
“To Mom.”
“She may not have known exactly what it was.”
“But she knew enough to be afraid.”
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
For fifteen years, I thought Mom’s silence came from grief.
Now I’m beginning to understand that some of it came from fear.
“We need to find that box.”
“We will.”
I look at him. “That sounded like another order.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good.”
“It was a promise.”
Something in my chest shifts.
I look away before he sees it.
“There was another line on the back,” Doc says.
I turn the paper over.
Only five words are written there.
DON’T TRUST THE MAN IN COMMAND.
I read them twice.
“Grant meant Captain Miller.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I believe Grant chose every word carefully. If he meant Miller, he could have written his name.”
“Then who was the man in command?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
A noise sounds downstairs.
Doc turns toward the staircase.
Every light in the upstairs hallway goes out.
My hand reaches for the weapon inside my room.
This time, the tavern’s emergency lights don’t come on.
A man shouts below us.
Then a gunshot shakes the building.
Doc pulls his weapon and pushes me behind him.
“Stay here.”
I grab my gun from the nightstand.
“You should know me better by now.”
Together, we run toward the stairs.