Bull cleared his throat. “As it happens, Doc Grayson was asking about you. Said you made him a promise last year that you’d see a therapist. Said if you didn’t, he’d come up and you two would…chat.”

“Fuck.” The psychologist never made threats he didn’t keep.

Even worse, Hawk had promised. Guess he’d better man up.

Pulling himself together, Hawk realized his brother had moved silently away, heading for the chicken coop.

A few minutes later, on the way back, Bull slowed. “Let me know when you have an appointment. I’ll take you there the first time or two.” He didn’t wait for an answer.

The bull knew him well.

Her laptop in front of her, Frankie listened with half an ear to the activity in the coffee shop. And sniffed appreciatively at the chocolatey aroma of a mocha coffee.

Scowling at her emails, she thought she could use some chocolate. Two of her friends in New York had married military guys; a couple of the Bocelli models had lovers in the security business. Another friend worked in defense. After the book club meeting, she’d asked them all about finding a reputable mercenary team. Their replies were discouraging, filled with warnings about the various mercenary outfits for various reasons—bad reps, incompetent, rip-offs, criminals. Some guy named deVries had quit the business. She still had a couple of her friends who hadn’t weighed in…and really, she was only checking into mercenaries as a worst-case scenario.

Maybe the next chore on her to-do list would go better. That was doubtful, though. She picked up her cell phone, selected a contact, and tried to bolster her courage. Speaking with her family seemed to get more difficult the longer she was in Alaska. Maybe because—aside from her trips to see Nonna—this was the longest she’d ever spent away from them. She missed them, but watching Bull with his family made her see that hers wasn’t very loving. Or supportive of anything unrelated to their own interests.

Sure, she knew that…in a way. Most of her friends had wonderful parents. But she’d never stepped back and really considered hers.

She tapped the CALL square.

“Francesca, it’s about time you returned my call.”

“Mama, hi. I saw you’d called a couple of times. I’m sorry, but the cell reception at the cabin is crummy. I waited to call you from town.”

The atmosphere in the little coffee shop seemed to darken with the spew of irritated language coming from the phone.

“Mama—”

“Just tell me when you’re returning. Nyla can’t handle your job. We’ve had two models quit and a photographer has refused to work with Jaxson. Birgit wants a new makeup artist, and…”