He turned another page. More of the same. Page after page, he took in pencil-sketched scenes. Stars and mountains. Ocean waves breaking on a beachfront. Incredible detail, as if photographs had transfixed themselves from real life to sketch paper. Minute details. Powerful, purposeful smudges. Light, dark. Shading and space. It was raw, uninhibited talent.

“You drew all these?”

She nodded, a shy grin and a pink hue cast on her face.

His wife was an artist? An extraordinary artist. And he hadn’t a clue. “I never knew.”

She leaned back into her chair again, breathing out a sigh. “I know. I’ve kept a lot from you. Not intentionally.” She looked out the window again. “I shouldn’t have thrown that failure jab. Something clicks in my head, and I either shut down or lash out.”

Classic PTSD. How much had she talked to Mia?

Her forearm draped over the armrest, and he took her hand, smoothing his thumb over the ridges of her balled fist.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

Her shoulders scrunched. “I always thought I was strong.”

“You are.”

Sarah shook her head and laughed sadly. “I’m not. Actually, I was up all last night writing down everything I should’ve told you. It’s toward the back of my sketch book. That’s the more. That’s what I want.”

Her tight fist relaxed, but her fingers fidgeted in his hand while she shifted in her chair.

He cleared his throat. “Look…” All this honesty bullshit burned like indigestion. Didn’t taste good coming up, and ignoring it didn’t help. “I thought I was strong too.”

Brown eyes flashed to him, ready to lob an accusation. But nothing came. Progress?

He continued, “I thought I was invincible. Could control the world. Guess when you can fly hot and fast, wire explosives to take out a cartel, you just assume you can save the girl. You were right, angel. I put you and the girls in danger. It killed me. Sliced my soul into pieces.”

Saying it out loud hurt. Physically hurt. Stomachache. Throat ache. Headache.

“Brock… I didn’t mean…”

“Whatever you meant, that’s the truth.”

Putting it out there, showing his ass to the universe, didn’t make the aches lessen. The jet engines droned. Heavy silence blanketed them.

“Like I said, I was up all night.” She stifled a yawn. “I’m going to close my eyes. But you should read what I wrote. If you want to. Maybe you’ll want to write down some stuff too. It… was eye-opening.”

Write down stuff? No, thank you. Jotting down the emo-explosion from within was a little too mamsy-pansy for him. If he did that, he’d have to queue up some new age music on his iPod and trade in his thick-as-mud black coffee for some feel-good herbal tea.

What he wanted was for his woman to fall asleep against him. She could snooze, he could page through her notes, see what more was, and adjust his strategy as needed.