Navy Seal's Deadly Secret. Cindy Dees

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      Brett heated up a can of baked beans and poured them over a couple of slices of toast. He was just sitting down to eat the makeshift grub when headlights flashed through the window. Reggie growled beside him.

      “Now who’s come to bug us?” he grumbled at the dog.

      Reggie merely glared at the front door and growled again, low in his throat.

      A door slammed outside, and a familiar voice called, “Brett? You home?”

      Oh dear Jesus. His mother. The original Morgan hurricane. No way in hell would she go away quietly after a few not-so-subtle hints like Anna Larkin had. And he couldn’t very well pretend not to be here. Miranda would have to walk right past his truck, parked out front as proud as you please, to get to the front porch. Swearing under his breath, he opened the door.

      “Of course I’m home, Mother. My truck’s parked out front and the lights are on in the cabin.”

      “I heard there was some excitement down at Pittypat’s today. Are you okay, sweetie?”

      He ground his molars together at being called sweetie. He was a freaking commando, for crying out loud, and had killed dozens, or maybe hundreds, of hostiles over the years. Only Miranda Morgan had the gall to call him something so childish and insulting.

      “I’m fine. Thanks for coming up to check on me.”

      She stomped up the steps like a freight train gathering momentum. Nope. Not gonna take the hint to go away. Dammit. She barreled inside the tiny cabin, filling it up with her huge personality. “This place is a dump. You really should have let me redecorate it before you moved in here,” she announced.

      “It’s fine for me. I don’t need anything fancy. Just a roof over my head and a dry place to lie down at night.” What he did most nights didn’t actually qualify as sleep, truth be told. He tossed and turned in between nightmares that woke him sweating in cold terror, most nights.

      “Is that what you’re eating for supper?” she demanded. “Come down to the main house and let Willa cook you a proper supper.”

      “Willa Mathers? Hank’s daughter?”

      “Correct. She helps me out around the house and does some bookkeeping and filing for your father when she’s not studying. She’s going to school, you know. Working on a PhD in counseling or something.”

      Good for her. Daughter of the ranch’s longtime foreman, he remembered Willa as a skinny kid with long black braids and a magic touch with horses.

      “Seriously, Brett. I’m not letting you sit up here starving yourself to death.”

      “Do I look like I’m starving?”

      “All this time you’re spending alone isn’t good for you. Come down to the house and eat supper with us every day.”

      Brett’s voice went flat. “No.”

      He was not putting himself in the way of his father on a daily basis. No way. John Morgan was a born-again son of a bitch, and he could do without his father’s judgment and condescending crap, thank you very much. Just because his father was a decorated war hero didn’t mean his sons had to be the same.

      Hell, he didn’t know if he was a hero or a traitor, anyway, after that last mission. If only he could remember—

      “You sound as stubborn your father when you talk like that.”

      His gaze narrowed to a cold stare. He would take that as a compliment, this time. “Don’t push me, Mom. I’m only here until I figure out what I’m doing next. If you can’t leave me alone like you agreed to, just say the word, and I’m gone.”

      Miranda scowled back at him, no less stubborn than him or his father. Silence stretched between them as Brett refused to be the one to give in, and Miranda did the same. Even Reggie felt the tension, for the dog eventually whimpered and came over to bump Brett’s hand. The mutt seemed to be looking for reassurance more than a scratch, so Brett let his hand rest on the dog’s back.

      “Fine. Be like that,” Miranda huffed.

      He didn’t deign to speak or to let her off the hook.

      She flopped down on the ratty sofa and threw up her hands. “So what happened at Pittypat’s? Joe called to tell me you broke a guy’s nose and arm.”

      He ground out, “The guy was a punk who tried to rob the place. I stopped him.”

      “By half killing him?”

      “Trust me. If I had tried to kill him, he would be dead.”

      Miranda rolled her eyes, not fazed by the remark. But then, John Morgan was an ex-Green Beret who’d killed his fair share of Vietcong.

      Brett picked up a knife and fork and dug into his meal, such as it was. He didn’t invite her up here, and he felt no obligation to entertain her.

      “What about the waitress? Joe said she got roughed up but you saved her.”

      He shrugged, but his shoulders felt unaccountably tight. It still pissed him off that the punk had slammed her into the counter like that. The fear in her eyes—he would be dreaming about that in his nightmares for days to come. And that other thing in her eyes… He could swear it had been a death wish. What the hell was that all about? “What about her?”

      “Is she okay?” Miranda asked in exasperation.

      “Of course. I saved her.”

      “What’s СКАЧАТЬ