“I followed a lead—”
“No, I mean, why did you become an analyst? Where are you from?”
Oh. “Montana. I have five brothers—four of whom you know. Knox, Tate, Ford, and Wyatt.”
He shook his head.
“Probably for the best. But I grew up trying to keep up with them. All the Marshall boys are spectacular. My brother Reuben was a smokejumper, Knox was a bull rider, Tate is a bodyguard, Wyatt is an NHL goalie, and Ford is a SEAL.”
“So, underachievers, then.”
She laughed. “And then there’s me.”
His smile fell and he searched her eyes. “You don’t think you’re an underachiever, do you?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t want to be. But…well, I wasn’t brave growing up.”
He frowned.
“Ford and I got trapped once in a cave, and we nearly died because I was too afraid to be left alone.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
His mouth made a tight line.
“I know, I should have been braver.”
“Are you kidding me? I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
She looked away. “The problem was, my father blamed Ford—or at least I thought he did—for getting us into trouble, and I think he sort of told my brothers to look after me. It always made me feel as if—”
“As if you had to prove yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“Mostly to yourself.”
She met his eyes. “For a guy who doesn’t know much—”
“I know about regret. And wanting to be someone you’re proud of.” He touched her face. “I think you’re plenty brave, Sydney Bristow.”
“You remember.”
“I googled it.”
His hand slid behind her neck, his thumb running along the soft skin at the well of her throat. “Thank you for finding me.”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, softly, testing, as if kissing her in the park had been a fluke.
As if not sure he was welcome.
She slid her arms around his neck, sinking into his embrace.
The door opened, and she pushed away from him as Jethro came out onto the deck.
“Oops. Headed out for more wood.”
“Let me help.”
“No, that’s okay, son. Carry on.” Jethro grinned and headed off the deck, and RJ wanted to melt into the boards.
York laughed and reached for her, pulling her against him. “Everything is going to work out, RJ. You’ll see.”
She didn’t want to tell him that this was the first time ever she’d heard him say this. So maybe he had changed.
She liked the new and improved York. Even if he couldn’t remember her.
A shout from the woodpile broke through the darkness.
“Jethro? You need help?”
Nothing, and RJ pushed away from him as he straightened. “Jethro?”
Silence, and York started for the edge of the deck.
A man appeared out of the darkness, ax in hand, swinging so fast RJ barely registered it.
York spun away. The ax embedded in the wall.
York jerked the back of his elbow onto the guy’s neck.
The man grunted, turned, and slammed his fist into York’s back.
York stumbled, caught himself on the rail, and whirled around just in time to duck the second fist.
He sent his own into the man’s jaw and, in a swift follow-up move, caught the man’s arm, trapped it with his own.
The man punched York in the throat.
York stumbled, fighting to catch his breath.
The assailant smacked York in the chest hard and he went down.
RJ screamed.
The man was big—bigger than York, and balding, square jawed, scar faced, I-hurt-people-for-a-living written in his cold eyes as he headed for her.
She scrambled back.
York tangled his legs into the thug’s and the man went down to his knees.
Emitted a curse word.
In Russian.
York rolled, his legs around the Russian’s beefy body, his arms around his neck, a rear naked choke hold.
The Russian writhed back, slamming York into the railing, dislodging him.
Raven appeared at the door and screamed.
RJ scrambled to her feet.
And when the Russian stepped toward Raven, RJ threw herself in front of her, pushing her back.
Russki grabbed RJ around the neck, lifting her off her feet.
Her world turned splotchy as she scraped at his arm, kicking.
“Get off her!” York shouted.
Her turn. She slammed her fist down, hard, between the Russian’s legs.
He dropped her, snarling.
She fell to her knees.
He whirled and unloaded his fury into York’s face.
York fell against the railing.
Russki reached for the ax.
“Drop it!” a voice said.
The Russian ignored him, turned toward York, the ax raised.
RJ screamed again.
A gunshot cracked the air.
Russki stumbled, and York met the ax handle with his outstretched hand.
“Don’t move!”
York grunted, put another hand on the ax, staring at the Russian.
Then, abruptly, the Russian let go and took off down the deck and away from their shooter.
York whirled to follow, then grabbed the railing, hard, wobbling.
The shooter ran onto the deck, into the light.
Not Jethro.
Jimbo looked at RJ. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, and he turned to Raven. “You?”
Raven stood with her hands cupped to her mouth, eyes wide. She lowered her hands. “Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s over here,” said Jimbo. “And he’s hurt.”
No. But as Raven ran past her, RJ looked at York.
Blood ran down his face, from his nose, his mouth, and he’d collapsed back against the railing, his eyes wide, his chest rising and falling fast as he stared toward the darkness.
Looking very much like he might be having another panic attack.
“York?”
But his eyes were empty, looking past her, all the way to yesterday.
8
Just. Keep. Breathing.
Tate stood in the family room of the house overlooking Wapato Lake, the late morning sun streaming in to cascade over the leather sofa, the worn leather chairs, and the four victims trying to make sense of last night’s attack.
One of those victims was his sister.
RJ still had bruises on her neck, and he could barely look at her.
Another was York, who looked, at best, unraveled. Because apparently he didn’t know who he was or why a Russian thug might want to kill him. And that was a story Tate still couldn’t quite wrap his brain around.
The third was a woman who looked uncannily like his sister, although younger. Raven wasn’t exactly sitting on the sofa. She kept sitting on the arm, then getting up to pace, then sitting again, her gaze always going to the man in the recliner.
Jethro Darnell, her father, sported a killer hematoma over his eye, a mild concussion, and not a little frustration that he’d been taken out by a hard swing to the head by one of his own logs.
But that’s how the Bratva worked. They were scrabblers. Resourceful.
Relentless.
Because, according to RJ’s description, the man who’d attacked them happened to be Tate’s old, out-of-prison-too-soon nemesis, Slava.