“I know that.”
“Good. Then you know that if she’s in, she’s all in. But . . .”
It was the but that put a fist in Orion’s gut. The but and the long pause and then he tried to temper it . . . “I know about her past, Garrett.”
“Then you know how her mother died.”
“She was killed by her boyfriend.”
“Yes. Jenny might look put together, but she hides her wounds well.”
He knew that too. Because she’d managed to hide the fact that she worked for the CIA while they were serving together in Afghanistan, managed to hide the fact that she had a nervous breakdown, even managed to pretend she didn’t know him when she ran into him later, in Alaska—not wanting to dredge up the past and the guilt she felt at her part in an op-gone-south.
Not her fault. But still, the woman had the capacity to walk wounded like no one he knew. So, he nodded. “I know. But Jenny and I don’t have secrets.” Not, at least, anymore.
“Good.” Garrett had walked over to the next barrel of wine, replacing his glasses to read the gauge. “The thing about making wine is that you have to know when to stop the fermentation process, rack off the wine, and let it sit. And you can’t rush the process. But if you can wait . . . well, it’s always worth it.” He looked back at Orion.
Orion stared at him. “I’ll remember that if I ever make wine.”
Garrett pursed his lips. “Why do you want to marry our Jenny?”
He was ready for this. “I’ve loved her for years, really. But when we found each other again, it was like . . . I don’t know, maybe an answer to a question I didn’t know I had. She makes me better and I think—well, it’s time.” He followed Garrett as he walked out of the back of the barn, toward the apple orchard.
Aggie and Jenny were picking apples from a tree down the lane. She wore her blonde hair down, and it shone a deep gold under the sun.
“Time for you? Or time for her?”
Orion looked at him, frowned. “Time for us. I’m ready to start our lives. To get married, have children . . .” He looked back at Jenny. “I don’t want to be Ham and realize that we could have had more but didn’t grab our chance.”
“According to Ham, he didn’t even know his daughter was alive.”
“No, he didn’t. And the last time he saw his wife was ten years ago at a refugee camp in Chechnya. I don’t know the whole story. But I do know that she was kidnapped by a terrorist and Ham thought she had died. He regrets not going after her anyway.”
“And you’ll go after Jenny?”
“Always.”
“That, son, was the right answer.” Garrett turned then and held out his hand. “Here’s hoping she says yes.”
Here’s hoping.
Please.
“We used to come here after our basketball games,” Jenny said now, scooping up a square piece of pizza. “Fraser would challenge his brother Jonas to a pizza-eating contest. It never went well for Jonas.”
“I haven’t met him.”
“He’s a storm chaser in the summer, but works in Oklahoma during the winter months, researching tornados.”
Now? Nope. “Aggie could play basketball. She’s got a great hook shot.”
“Yes. I saw you trying to teach her.” She picked up her glass, took a drink. Set it down. Wiped her fingers. Looked at the fire.
Huh.
“Ham wants us to go to DC tomorrow for some fundraising event.”
“Good. Fine.”
Now? Maybe—
“That Ferris wheel accident was really . . . wow.” She gave him a tight smile. “Scary.”
So that was the problem. Maybe it touched off her PTSD. He touched her hand. “Everybody was okay. Aggie was so brave, though, wasn’t she?”
She nodded. Turned and wove her fingers through his.
“She called me Uncle Ry today.”
It coaxed a grin from her. “Sweet.”
Now. Yes. “Jenny, can I . . . uh . . .” And shoot, Just do it, man! He stood up, dug into his pocket, and then, without a hint of pain, knelt down on one knee. He still had a hold of her hand. Ran his thumb across the top of it.
Her eyes widened. “Ry—”
“Just listen, Jenny. Since you came back into my life, I’ve known . . . well, even before then, I knew you were the only girl for me. You’re beautiful and brave and kind and I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”
Yes, see, that came out easily enough. He took a breath. “And I don’t want to.” He let go of her hand and opened up the ring box. A solitaire. Something pretty yet simple and perfect for the woman he loved. “Babe, will you marry me?”
She’d wrapped her hands around her waist and now stared at him.
And the restaurant had gone quiet, waiting for her answer.
He grinned at her.
“No.”
Huh?
He might have frowned because she shook her head, and got up, nearly knocking him over. “No, Ry—”
He scrambled to his feet. “Jenny—”
But she was backing away from him, shaking her head, her expression pained.
No more than the terrible squeezing of his heart.
“No, Orion. I can’t—I won’t marry you.” Then she turned and sprinted for the door.
Taking the world with her.
It was a simple room, but safe.
With a lock on the door, a single clean bed, a small table, and windows that overlooked the river Main—a dark snake three stories below. Most of all, the room came with a large, grumpy woman at the front desk who looked a lot like Signe’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Nicholson.
And no one got by Mrs. Nicholson.
Felix’s fresh new documents had done their job—Signe Kincaid was now Sigfreda Katz, and she checked in with euros, just like every other traveler at the hostel Jugendherberge.
Signe had spent the day hiding, watching as the police secured the flat, then doubled back when it got dark and took Felix’s VW Passat to Frankfurt. She’d ditched it a mile away and walked to the hostel, the darkness pressing into her, the air breathing a chill into her bones as the wind stirred off the molten black river. Not even a moon to light her way, although maybe that was in her favor. No one to watch her as she limped along the sidewalks. No one to watch as she purchased a backpack and filled it with essentials—toiletries, a flashlight, a map of Frankfurt, water, a scarf, and socks.
Signe didn’t know why, but socks were always on the list. If she wore socks, at least her feet would be warm. Protected.
Socks meant she wasn’t completely destitute.
But she was hungry. She’d eaten nothing—too upset by the images of Zara and Felix lodged into her mind—and now, as she set her backpack on the bed and stared out the window, her stomach roared to life.
She shouldn’t leave the room. Maybe she shouldn’t have even stopped, but really, where was she going to run that the CIA wouldn’t find her?
Or, for that matter, the Russian mob?
Oh, things had gotten way too complicated from the day she’d seen the NOC list on Pavel’s computer and realized the jig was up.
Frankly, she didn’t understand why she wasn’t already dead, because Pavel would have killed her if he’d actually studied the list.