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About this book

Whether she’s writing about a BDSM club in Florida or a tiny town in Alaska, Cherise Sinclair is always magic.

~ Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

She survived.

Kit survived her abusive husband. Survived imprisonment and beatings from the Patriot Zealots. Now free and healing, she can make a new life for herself and her son…except he has attached himself to a terrifying, scarred, tattooed ex-mercenary.

Women take one look at him and flee.

An ugly childhood and combat left Hawk with scars, a rasping voice, and an aversion to talking. So, why in hell does the four-year-old stick to him like glue?

The kid’s pretty mother is smarter. There’s fear in her eyes when she looks at Hawk. That hurts. The sweet woman is everything he’s ever wanted--loving, affectionate, and patient. But after what she’s been through, she sure won’t want to be around men—especially the one who killed her husband.

He’d saved her.

Kit agrees with her son. Being near Hawk is the safest place on earth. Beneath the menacing appearance, he’s protective…and kind. The better she gets to know him, the more she sees him as a man--a very sexy man. But, considering what had happened to her, she knows--

No man would want her now.

Dedication

To Kathleen Cole, the Alaska Ice Lady, who fought long and hard. I’m going to miss you so much. Your joy in life was an inspiration to us all.

Soar high, my friend.

Acknowledgments

Hugs and so much gratitude goes to my psychology consultants, Ruth Reid and AnnaMaria Boullion. Y’all have the biggest hearts.

I’m so very blessed with my critique partners, Fiona Archer and Monette Michaels. Thank you!

My editors simply rock, what can I say? Content editor: Bianca Sommerland, and copy-editing/proofing from Red Quill Editing with Ekatarina Sayanova, Tracy Damron-Roelle, and Rebecca Cartee.

Many hugs and thanks go to Lisa White, Barb Jack, and Marian Shulman for the amazing beta reading. Y’all have saved me much embarrassment!

My Alaska experts went above and beyond the call of duty with ideas and corrections. Thank you, JJ Foster and Kathleen Cole. Any errors that slipped in are my very own.

Finally, thank you all, my readers, for going on this trip to Alaska with me. *muah!*

Prologue

When everything seems to be against you, remember that an airplane takes off against the wind, not with it. ~ Henry Ford.

“Keep up, boy.”

The sarge’s firm command jerked Hawk’s attention from where he trudged along the steep trail behind the other three kids. Kinda like he was in the army. In a lot of soldier movies, the badass sergeant was always yelling at some poor bastard. Mako didn’t yell much, but his voice was as big as he was.

Hawk didn’t speed up. He didn’t want to get up all close with his foster-brothers.

Nah, he shouldn’t call them that. The sarge wasn’t running a foster home, and he sure wasn’t their father. He was just the guy who’d taken—rescued—the four of them from a California foster home and brought them to Alaska.

Because the foster father in LA had been a pervert.

Hawk scowled and fell even farther behind. He could still feel the guy’s hands touching him, ripping his shirt. The knee pinning him down to the bed.

Sometimes those memories got mixed up with the beatings his real father had dished out. Sometimes he kinda got caught, like in that steel trap the sarge had showed them. Mako’d been pissed off, cuz the trap was all steel teeth that’d dig into some poor animal.

The shit Hawk’d been through had left behind big holes.

Turning, Gabe gave him a worried look. The kid was ten, a year older than Hawk. He was okay, but kinda like one of those weird dogs that rounded up sheep. Gabe got antsy, like, if he couldn’t keep track of the other boys, they might get hurt or something.

Hawk looked away. Nobody needed to worry about him; nobody ever had before.

“Caz, where’s the closest water?” Mako kept moving up the trail. It wasn’t right. He was old, maybe even fifty or something, but he wasn’t even breathing hard.

The rest of them were panting like dogs in L.A. during the summer.

“Water. It is…” Caz looked around. He was a year younger than Hawk and Bull—and Hawk liked to call him the baby to piss him off an’ make him swear. Not that Hawk usually understood what Cazador said; the baby still dropped into Spanish when he got mad.

Caz’s shoulders hunched. “No sé.”

Hawk didn’t know either.

“Listen,” Mako said. “You got two ears; use them. All of you.”

They stopped to listen. And yeah, Hawk could hear water running. A creek or something. Keeping one hand on the rock wall, he turned his head to try to pinpoint it. It was somewhere way, way, way down the scary-as-shit slope part on the other side of the trail.

Why’re we walking up the side of a mountain, anyway?

They all pointed toward the creek.

“Good. Next time, find it before I ask,” Mako said. “Which way is home?”

Home.

Hawk scowled. Guess he’d lived in the log cabin like a month now, so okay, maybe it might kinda be almost home. In the loft, he had a bed and even a box for his stuff. Nobody bothered the shit he found—the eagle feathers, the tiny nest, an eggshell littler than a grape.

Suddenly there was a rattle of stones from behind him. A baby elk darted out and dodged past him, heading up the trail past the others.

Jesus, it was cute.

“Move,” the sarge roared and pointed at something behind Hawk.

What? Glancing over his shoulder, Hawk gasped.

A fucking huge elk charged up the trail—right at him.

He threw himself back—not far enough.

Its giganto-shoulder slammed into him and knocked him toward the drop at the trail’s edge. He screamed in terror. “Nooo!”

Grabbing his shirt, the sarge swung him around and tossed him safely against the cliff wall.

Making weird grunting sounds, the elk mama lunged at Gabe like she wanted to stomp on him.

The kid dove away.

“Leave, dumbass!” The sarge threw a big rock at the beast’s huge nose.

The elk shook its head, then its ears went back again and—

Huddled against the rock wall, Hawk stared as a giant crack appeared right under the animal’s hooves. The trail was falling apart!

“Gabe, get back!” Hawk yelled.

Gabe tried, stumbled, and went down on one knee.

The elk leaped away from the collapsing path and ran after its baby.

Lunging forward, Mako caught Gabe’s collar and threw him farther down the trail, even as the ground disappeared right out from under the sarge’s boots. In a mass of falling rocks and dirt, Mako went over the edge.

“Nooo,” Hawk whispered.

“Mako!” Bull shouted. No answer. Bull started to follow, and more of the trail crumbled away.

“Stop,” Gabe yelled. “Just wait.

Bull paused.

“Hawk, you got rope, right?” Gabe called.

“Yeah.” Hawk dug in his pack and pulled out a bunch of coiled rope. Mako was gonna teach him to use it on the cliffs.

Gabe pointed to a tree off to one side. “Caz, tie it there.”

Cazador scrambled to the spot, caught the rope Hawk tossed him, wrapped it around the tree, and made a solid knot. Something else Mako had taught them.

Bull kicked the coil off the side of the slope and held it. He leaned out. “I think he fell all the way down to the stream.”

“Let’s get him. Bull, you take backup.” Gabe grabbed the rope and used it to slow himself down as he went over the edge.

Caz followed.

Hawk slung his pack on, took a step—and tripped as loose rocks rolled out from under his foot. Arm windmilling, he teetered.

Still gripping the rope, Bull grabbed Hawk’s shirt and kept him from going over.

Jesus. Hawk latched onto the rope with shaking hands. “Thanks.” The word came out in his ugly, rough voice.

“Sure.” Bull grinned.

With a steadying breath—and a tight grip on the line—Hawk headed down. It wasn’t a cliff like on the other side of the trail but was steep enough he’d have tumbled a dozen times if not for the rope.

Bull followed.

The sarge lay at the bottom of the slope, half in the rushing creek.

“Sarge?” Hawk’s hands clenched when he didn’t move. Gabe took one arm, Hawk the other, and they dragged him onto the flat bank out of the water.

He didn’t move.

Fear was colder than the icy water. “Is he d-dead?”

“Wait.” Kneeling, Caz put his head on Mako’s chest. “Heart is alive. Breathing. Him arm broked.”

Now what? Hawk looked at Gabe. So did Caz.

But Gabe had his arms wrapped around himself and was shaking. They all were. How were they supposed to deal with this? To help the sarge?

“Yo.” Bull bumped his shoulder against Gabe’s. “What now?”

Gabe blinked, then hauled in a breath and planted his feet like he was getting ready to fight. “O-okay. Um. Guess we’re staying here for a while.”

“He cold.” Caz held Mako’s big hand in both of his.

“Right.” Gabe motioned to their backpacks. “Dig out your emergency blankets. We’ll wrap—”

Deep huffing and growling sounds made them freeze. Hawk knew that sound from the river by the cabin. It was a bear.

Oh fuck. He was shaking so hard his knees started to give out.

The bear was farther down the stream. Looking right at them. It didn’t have a hump on the back, so it must be a black bear, not a brown…even though it was kinda brownish.

Mako had said to get real noisy for the black ones.

Hawk swallowed hard and glared at Gabe. “Be noisy.”

Gabe nodded and snapped at Bull and Caz. “Start yelling. Scare it off.”

Bending, Hawk snatched the giant gun from Mako’s holster.

The other boys were screaming and waving their arms.

Damn bear didn’t run. Why didn’t it run?

Hawk gripped the gun and pointed it at the bear. The pistol was really heavy.

“Wait.” Gabe leaned over and shoved the safety button thing—and stepped back.

Okay then. Gritting his teeth, Hawk pointed the gun toward the treetops, cuz hitting the bear would piss it off and it’d attack for sure.

He pulled the trigger.

Bam. The gun jumped up in his hands and hit him right in the forehead.

Ow. His face hurt, and his ears were ringing from the noise.

But the bear veered off and disappeared into the trees.

Gone.

The others cheered, then silence fell. Because…now what?

Caz had pulled his blanket out, and they worked to wrap the thin crinkly thing around the sarge.

Mako was so quiet, like he was dead, only he wasn’t, was he?

Tears stung Hawk’s eyes, and Caz was blinking hard, and Bull kept patting the sarge’s chest like he was a dog or something.

Gabe was frowning. “We’re gonna need a fire.”

“Yeah,” Hawk said.

The other two nodded. And looked at Gabe.

Then Mako groaned.

His eyes opened, blue eyes in a tan face that was all scratched and bloody. He started to move, grunted, and scowled at his arm. “What the fuck?”

Bull grinned. “The trail fell apart—and you fell too.”

“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.”

“It’s Ms. Sandersen.” Darned if she’d keep Obadiah’s name. “I’m sorry, I know we’ve met, but I don’t remember your names.”

It seemed as if every person in Alaskan law enforcement had interviewed her.

The shorter man with brown eyes and hair pulled out his badge. “FBI, ma’am. Special Agent Acosta.”

“Special Agent Langford.” The tall one showed his badge. “We asked the facility to let you know we’d be coming.”

Kit let out a pained breath and tried to settle her nerves. Be brave, Kittycat. Her father’s affectionate name for her always helped. She’d clung to the memory of his voice when she was growing up. Still did. “What with vacation season, the place is understaffed. I’ll probably get your message tomorrow.”

Langford barked a laugh. “Figures. Sorry, we’d have called you directly if we’d had a number.”

“I haven’t bought a phone yet.” Because she had no money. No income. Her anxiety surged, and she pushed it aside. She’d manage; she always did. “Has something happened? Did you catch Captain Nabera?”

“Not yet, no.” Acosta gestured to one of the café tables in the shade. “He holed up somewhere. Maybe in the forests. The rest of the Patriot Zealots have scattered.”

Arm pressed against her ribs, Kit carefully took a seat. At least the incision where her spleen had been repaired no longer felt like a burning brand. “Then…?”

“Apparently, your husband was one of Nabera’s so-called lieutenants.”

They’d probably learned that during their interviews with the other women freed from the Patriot Zealots. Kit nodded. “He was.”

“Did Obadiah share any information with you about the Patriot Zealots’ future plans—ones they’d been making before they left?”

The night Kit and the other women had been rescued, the PZs had cleared out of the compound and disappeared.

She took a moment to think. “I don’t know of anything specific, but Parrish and Nabera were worried. They were losing people and unable to recruit enough to keep the money coming in. They needed ways to get publicity. Um, like confrontations with the law or government officials or attacking a high-profile politician. Nabera said every time a militia group got into a standoff with a liberal, money would flood in.”

Acosta’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “That’s an ugly truth.”

“I don’t really know anything else. Women weren’t…” She shrugged. Women were less than second-class citizens to the PZ militia. No, they weren’t even citizens at all.

“The main reason we’re here is”—Agent Acosta shifted in his chair—“while searching the areas around the compound, we found a dump site.”

“A what?”

Langford met her gaze. “We were told that Nabera and his lieutenants would dispose of bodies over a cliff.”

“They did.” She swallowed. “Right after I arrived, Conrad hit a woman too hard, and she died. Obadiah asked Luka what would happen with her body, since there were no swamps here like they use in Texas. Luka said there was a gorge where they just…tossed…”

Her stomach turned over. That’s where her body would have been flung if she’d died that night as Obadiah and Nabera had intended. “Is that what you mean?”

Acosta nodded. “We found women’s bodies—and some Patriot Zealots who were killed when you and the other women were freed.”

The PZs who were killed that night. Like Obadiah? “You found my husband.”

“We have a positive identification, yes.” Acosta hesitated, obviously not sure whether to offer her condolences or congratulations.

She wasn’t sure either.

They hadn’t been married that long. Hadn’t even known each other very long. She’d been working in a garden center and helped him choose fruit trees that would survive the harsh Texas summers. He was burly and bearded, slow and deliberate. And so polite. He hadn’t let her lift the pots, saying a man was given strength for a reason.

Her first husband, Brenden, had died of a drug overdose after trying to quit so many times. She’d been thrilled at Obadiah’s interest, at having found such a strong man. Someone who was Brenden’s opposite.

But Brenden had been kind, Obadiah controlling and cruel…and now Obadiah was dead.

She couldn’t find any regret inside her. If she’d been his only victim, maybe there would be some degree of sorrow, but he’d hurt her son. Only someone evil would hurt a sweet little four-year-old.

And only an idiot would have married a cruel fanatic.

She was that idiot.

She realized the agents were talking. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Sympathy softened Agent Langford’s face. “Just making plans for our next stop.”

They’d have more people to speak with, wouldn’t they? Others had been killed that night.

A memory invaded her thoughts. Obadiah standing over her, leg raised to kick her. Again. Aiming for her already broken ribs. She stared up at him, knowing she’d die with his next kick. No one would protect her son. But as Obadiah swung his leg, a man was diving across her, tackling Obadiah.

She shook her head. Stay in the present.

As she pulled in a deep breath, the pain in her ribs felt almost comforting. Because she was alive. “Will there be anything you need from me? For Obadiah?”

“No, ma’am.” Acosta rose. “The Rescue police chief said he’ll make sure you get the death certificate.”

The official paperwork wouldn’t help anything except her heart. When they moved into the compound, Obadiah had handed over their money to the Patriot Zealots. There was no insurance, no bank accounts.

Langford said, “You’re getting out today, I hear?”

When she nodded, Acosta asked, “Are you joining the other women at the shelter here?”

“No, I’m staying with a friend.” All she wanted at this point was to leave every thought of the Patriot Zealots behind. Seeing the others would bring it back. “Frankie should be picking me up soon.”

“Frankie is picking you up now,” came from the doorway. “Hi, agents.”

The two men smiled at Frankie—as most men did.

Curvy, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes, the New Yorker just plain liked people—and everyone liked her back.

“I’m glad you’re looking better,” Acosta said to Kit and laid a card on the table. “Call us if you think of anything we should know or if you have any concerns.”

“Thank you. I will.”

As the two men strode out of the small garden, Frankie walked over. “I heard the Feds say they found Obadiah’s body. Are you okay?” She bent to give Kit an abbreviated, ever-so-gentle hug that comforted without hurting any broken ribs.

There were days Kit felt like a sack of brittle twigs. One that a draft horse had stood on. Twice.

But she was healing.

“I already knew Obadiah was dead.” Even before Rescue’s Chief of Police had told her. Because she’d seen Hawk’s face after. Seen his haunted eyes. Killing Obadiah had wounded his soul.

Lifting her chin, Kit smiled to ease Frankie’s worry. “I’m packed and ready for you to break me out of this place.” Aric would be waiting. “Is this rescuing stuff turning into a habit?”

“Oh, no, amica mia. I’m keeping track and figuring on lots of return favors.” Frankie chuckled and motioned toward the door. “Next time, you can save me.”

The uncomfortable itch of feeling like she’d gotten charity faded. “Absolutely. I get to be the rescuer next time.”

On the way out, the staff of the facility hugged her and wished her a good recovery.

Barely one step outside the facility, Kit’s muscles tensed as she quickly checked the area for men. No men, no PZs. Just a parking lot with Frankie’s new SUV parked near the door.

Right. It was starting to feel as if her body might heal before her mind did.

Frankie opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the suitcase in the back.

Trying not to groan, Kit eased in. Ow, ow, ow. The physical therapist had warned that there was no way to get into a vehicle without twisting the torso at least a little.

Once in the seat, she focused on breathing as the pain in her ribs eased from I’ve-been-stabbed to merely a painful throbbing.

“Poor baby.” With a sympathetic look, Frankie buckled Kit’s seatbelt for her before driving out of the lot. Once out of Anchorage, they were on the road to Rescue, a small town on the Kenai Peninsula.

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