“Smartass boy.” A corner of Mako’s mouth tilted up. He moved an arm and patted the silver blanket around him. His gaze hit Bull, then Gabe, Caz, and Hawk.

The sarge grinned. “Good job. You men got the makings of a fine team.”

Good job. Mako didn’t say those words often.

Hawk stood a little straighter. But…

A team?

Yeah, maybe. If the others hadn’t been here, he wouldn’t have figured out to use a rope to get down the cliff. Would’ve probably fallen. Couldn’t have pulled the sarge out of the creek by himself. Wouldn’t know to get Mako warm. Or have remembered the safety.

Without Hawk, there’d be no rope. And the bear might’ve attacked.

A team might be good.

Because they were stronger together.

Chapter One

Twenty-three years later

The way I see it, every time a man gets up in the morning, he starts his life over. Sure, the bills are there to pay, and the job is there to do, but you don’t have to stay in a pattern. You can always start over, saddle a fresh horse, and take another trail. ~ Louis L’Amour

In the tiny garden of the rehab facility, Kirsten Sandersen pulled in a breath of moist, cool air. Springtime in Alaska, and although damaged in body and spirit, she was free. Like the leaves on the plants around her, she was putting out tender, new growth.

Her bag was packed and sitting at the door. The discharge paperwork had been signed, and she’d come to her favorite hideaway to wait for a ride home. Well, not home.

I don’t have a home.

Or a job.

Or a husband, for that matter. She waited to feel grief for Obadiah’s death. The only thing she felt was regret that she’d been so incredibly stupid. So needy for love that she’d fallen for his lies. His manipulation.

Shame bloomed inside her. Her desire for a strong man had tossed her and Aric right into a nightmare. Eventually, she’d recover, and if she didn’t, then she’d deal with it, but her son was only four years old. Would he ever get past the months of fear? Of abuse?

Baby, I’m so sorry.

She brushed the tears from her eyes, feeling like a wimp.

But her counselor had warned her that her emotions would be erratic for a while. Not a problem. Soon, she’d be out of this place—and back with her son.

Nothing mattered more than that.

Hearing a man clearing his throat, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her aching ribs, and swore under her breath in a way that would’ve gotten her caned by the PZs.

Two men wearing button-up shirts, jeans, and sports jackets stood near the door.

She retreated several fast steps.

The fair-skinned one held up both hands in a take-it-easy gesture. “Sorry, Mrs. Traeger.”