“Not sure. He was a Navy doc, and one day a chaplain and a notification officer appeared on our doorstep. He was killed in a training accident, but . . . you know. He was supposed to be on a ship. My mother spent years trying to figure out what happened. It drove her crazy. She finally decided that she couldn’t talk about him anymore. She moved on, got remarried . . .”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Ten.”

“That’s rough. I lost my mom when I was six. Is that why you became a doctor?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. My dad didn’t join the Navy until after 9/11. Said he wanted to make the world a better place. I guess I wanted to also.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to do it from my quiet houseboat in Seattle.”

“You have a houseboat?”

“Yeah. It’s docked on the east side of Lake Union. Has this beautiful view of downtown Seattle. It’s gorgeous. Two stories plus a deck. Two bedrooms, chef’s kitchen—”

“No wonder you’re such a good cook.”

She smiled at that. “Polished teak, a fireplace, a theater on the lower level, and a two-story glass wall for the view.”

“Wow. That’s better than a duffel.”

Oh, he could make her laugh. “I never dreamed for a bigger life, not really. I kayak across the lake to work, stop off at Cool Beans, a little coffee shop near my place, on my way. I would spend all day with Faheem, or my other colleague, Zoey, working on the vaccine, and then go home and get takeout from the Thai place near my house. I’d read a book on the deck with a glass of wine, listening to Patrizio Buanne—”

“Who?”

“He’s an Italian baritone.”

“Right.”

She shoved her hands between her knees. “I had no idea that I was responsible to save the world. And . . .” She swallowed, the truth lodging inside her like a bullet. “I’m not sure I want to be.”

He leaned back on his hands. “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

She looked at him. “George Orwell wrote that.”

He cocked his head at her. “Yeah. That’s pretty good, Flo.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I have a thing for quotes. They stick in my head.”

“Well, George Orwell wrote it, but we Delta guys used to say it. The world’s peace comes at a price.”

The geese suddenly lifted, flying into the blue, calling. A breeze found her, rich with the scent of wildflowers and pine.

Maybe she didn’t have to leave. Maybe she could stay here.

As if he could read her mind, Colt looked at her then, something solid and fixed in his gaze, and she hadn’t a hope of ignoring the sense if it—power, commitment, resolve, safety—or the way it moved inside her.