Joshua shrugged, looking down at his feet. “Mama yells at him a lot. Especially since Uncle John left.”

Oh shit. Diesel’s trouble-meter started pinging again. “Uncle John?”

“Her husband.” Joshua frowned. “But not my daddy. My daddy’s gone. To heaven.”

“Okay.” Calling his stepfather “uncle” also wasn’t an issue in and of itself. But all together . . . “And why did Uncle John leave?”

Another shrug. “Mama says it’s Michael’s fault. But Michael’s good.”

“I’m sure he is, honey,” Diesel murmured. “Does . . .” He drew a breath. “Joshua, does your mom ever . . . hit your brother? Or you?”

The misery in Joshua’s eyes was his answer.

Fuck. Diesel’s heart sank even as his resolve grew. No one would hurt this child. No one had saved Diesel, but by God, he’d make sure no child that crossed his path would endure what he had.

His heart hurt for these kids, the neglected ones. The abused ones. He felt a physical pressure on his chest and realized he’d pushed the heel of his hand to his heart, reminding him that he’d been living on borrowed time for years. There were whole blocks of time when he nearly forgot that he carried a bullet in his chest, courtesy of an Al-Qaeda insurgent. A bullet hovering too close to his heart to be removed. One day it would move, piercing his heart and ending his life.

But he was used to it now, the notion that his personal clock was running down. He was going to make the most of however many years—or days—he had left. Taking care of other people’s kids was his life’s mission.

Joshua Rowland had just become priority one.

Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 16, 11:30 a.m.

“Mom!” Glancing at the clock on the wall, Michael shook his mother’s shoulder, roughly voicing her name even though she hated to hear him speak.

It hadn’t always been that way. She’d never encouraged him, but she hadn’t hated him. But that was before Brewer had come into their lives. It hadn’t been perfect before the bastard, but once he’d moved in with them? That was when everything had gone to hell.

She’d been erratic before meeting the man, had even been a drug user. All that had changed. And in the last year it had gotten much, much worse. She’d never hit him before Brewer, either. Now . . .

She sometimes used her fists, but usually she’d hurl whatever happened to be in her hand at the time. This morning it had been a bowl. He’d been busy cooking Joshua’s breakfast and hadn’t seen her coming at him.

He touched the side of his head gingerly, grimacing at the blood on his fingers. He’d cleaned it as best he could. It would stop bleeding eventually. His head would stop pounding. Eventually.

Right now, Joshua was more important.